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THE  OLD 
MADHOUSE 

•      •      • 

WILLIAM  DE  MORGAN 


4,  V" 


LIBRARY 
UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
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^ 


THE   OLD   MADHOUSE 


THE    NOVELS    OF    WILLIAM 

DE    MORGAN 

Uniform  Edition.     Crown  8i;o.     In  7  vols. 
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ALICE  FOR  SHORT 

AN  AFFAIR  OF  DISHOSlOUR 

IT  NEVER  CAN  HAPPEN  AGAIN 

JOSEPH  VANCE 

A  LIKELY  STORY 

SOMEHOW  GOOD 

WHEN  GHOST  MEETS  GHOST 

LONDON  :    WILLIAM    HEINEMANN 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 


BY 


.d 


WILLIAM,  DE   MORGAN 


99    ii 


AUTHOR   OF        JOSEPH   VANCE,  ALICE-FOR-SHORT, 

"  SOMEHOW  GOOD,"  ETC. 


n 


LONDON  :    WILLIAM    HEINEMANN 


LONDON  :   WILLIAM   HEINEMANN.      1919. 


TO  ALL  OUR  AMERICAN  FRIENDS 

WHO  BY  THEIR  NEVER  FAILING  SYMPATHY 

AND  GENEROUS  APPRECIATION  OF  HIS  WRITINGS 

WERE  A  CONSTANT  SOURCE  OF  PLEASURE 

AND  GRATIFICATION  TO  MY  HUSBAND 

I  GRATEFULLY  DEDICATE  THIS  BOOK. 

E.  DE  M.,  1917. 


THE    OLD    MADHOUSE 

CHAPTER  I 

Very  near  the  end  of  last  century  there  was  a  house  in  Maida 
Vale  which  had  a  garden  in  front,  where  arbutus  and  laurustinus 
leaves  got  very  dusty  in  the  summer,  because  of  the  traffic.  The 
traffic  has  changed  its  mind  now,  and  kicks  up  no  dust.  But 
the  stench  of  its  petrol  baffles  language  to  describe. 

Are  we  the  better  or  the  worse  off  by  the  change?  The 
Optimist  says  better,  the  Pessimist  says  worse.  I  think  the 
present  writer  must  be  sitting  on  a  fence — a  pejorist,  suppose 
we  say,  since  jargon  is  in  vogue  nowadays — as  a  clean-leaved 
garden  always  puts  him  in  a  good  humour,  till  a  depraved 
motor-car  comes,  belching  out  its  hideous  stench  as  it  petrollicks 
down  the  road.  Then  he  cries  aloud  to  the  dust  that  is  gone  for 
ever,  to  come  back  and  bring  with  it  the  musical  hoof  of  the 
horse,  and  even  what  a  euphemism  of  that  date  referred  to  as 
the  condition  of  the  roads. 

But  that  is  neither  here  nor  there.  The  arbutus  and  laurus- 
tinus leaves  at  this  front  garden  in  Maida  Vale  were  very  dusty 
at  that  date.  As  this  was  equally  true  of  every  other  garden 
on  the  main  road ;  you  could  not  have  identified  the  house.  You 
might  have  knocked-and-rung  at  a  dozen  houses  before  the  ser- 
vant who  opened  one  of  their  doors  admitted  that  it  was  i\Irs. 
Frederic  Carteret's;  or  that  she  herself  would  see  if  that  lady 
was  at  home;  that  is  to  say,  would  ascertain  her  readiness,  or 
otherwise,  to  receive  a  visitor. 

That,  also,  is  neither  here  nor  there.  The  house  was  there; 
and  was  Mrs.  Frederic  Carteret's,  who  was  a  widow,  and  on  the 
way  to  fifty.  There  were  many  more  remains  of  a  beautiful 
woman  about  this  lady  than  there  were  of  a  fine  sample — accord- 
ing to  Mr.  Bailey — about  ]Mrs.  Gamp.  In  fact,  all  but  the  whole 
of  one  was  left.  The  colour  of  her  hair  wasn't  grey  yet,  and  her 
beauty  was  still  a  topic  of  conversation  at  afternoon  teas  in 
St.  John's  Wood  and  thereabouts.  So  was  her  handsome  son  of 
twenty-two,  about  whom  all  were  agreed — always  had  been — that 
if  Frederic  would  only  concentrate,  he  would  make  his  mark,  and 
thereby  justify  his  existence. 

If  every  one  of  us  had  to  justify  his  existence,  or  be  shot, 
what  a  scanty  population  of  survivors  would  be  left,  and  how 

3 


4  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

detestably  conceited  they  would  be !  This,  however,  is  most  cer- 
tainly neither  here,  there,  nor  anywhere  else.  Forgive  and  over- 
look it. 

Frederic  didn't  concentrate — wouldn't  concentrate !  It  was 
not  the  verdict  of  his  family  alone ;  it  was  the  voice  of  humanity, 
whenever  it  came  across  Fred.  It  may  have  had  a  doubtful 
sound  noAv  and  then  about  what  would  come  of  concentration. 
The  making  of  a  mark  was  not  always  the  end  to  achieve.  Some 
said,  with  moderation,  that  we  should  hear  more  of  that  young 
man — you  see  if  we  didn't ! — while  others  discerned  that  he 
would  be  in  Parliament  before  we  knew  where  we  were.  He  was 
certain,  according  to  some,  to  make  his  way  in  the  world ;  accord- 
ing to  others  to  set  the  Thames  on  fire.  He  himself  seemed  to 
be  content  with  anticipating  a  curious  delight,  that  of  aston- 
ishing the  Natives.  But  all,  except  himself,  disallowed  these 
triumphs  except  he  fulfilled  the  condition  precedent  of  con- 
centration. 

"  You'll  see.  Uncle  Drury,"  said  Fred's  mother  to  her  bald 
and  dignified  old  brother-in-law,  as  she  sat  and  chatted  with 
him  one  Saturday  after  lunch  in  her  drawing-room  at  Maida 
Vale,  "  that  dear  Fred  will  be  all  right  when  he's  married.  He 
only  wants  time  to  turn  round  and  settle  down,  and  then  you  see 
if  he  doesn't  concentrate.  Cinty  will  keep  him  steady.  He  will 
always  have  an  object  before  him.  Depend  upon  it,  there's 
nothing  like  a  wife,  for  keeping  an  Object  in  view." 

Uncle  Drury  weighed  eighteen  stone,  and  always  rumbled  in 
his  chest  before  he  spoke,  like  the  works  of  a  big  clock  before 
it  strikes.  Then  he  made  an  exclamation,  which  perhaps  should 
be  written  "  'pshaw ! "  as  you  would  have  said  he  was  a  likely 
old  gentleman  to  say  'pshaw !  But  then  nobody  knows,  nowa- 
days, how  it  was  pronounced  in  the  days  of  port  wine  and 
walnuts.     A  neophonetic  system  must  be  followed  here. 

"  Charchar !  " — that  was  what  it  sounded  like — "  Charchar ! 
Don't  tell  me  about  Wives  and  Objects.  If  a  wife  makes  her 
husband  concentrate,  well  and  good !  If  not,  she  may  just  as 
well  be  at  Jericho.  You  are  quite  at  liberty  to  tell  her  I  said 
so,  if  you  like,  Emilia.  Jericho!  "  Uncle  Drury  repeated  the 
word  forcibly,  as  though  it  had  a  strong  geographical  pungency, 
and  was  fraught  with  alienation  to  a  greater  extent  than 
Coventry,  or  even  Blazes.  He  then  blew  a  sostenuto  blast  on 
his  nose;  it  ought  to  have  heralded  a  proclamation,  and  the 
silence  that  followed  was  a  disappointment. 

"  You  are  always  hard  on  the  boy,  Uncle  Drury,"  said  his 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  5 

sister-in-law.  And  as  this  didn't  seem  to  arise  strictly  from  the 
conversation,  it  may  be  assumed  that  it  was  a  family  remark, 
liable  to  be  encountered  in  the  course  of  any  communion  between 
the  speakers,  sooner  or  later.  This  time  the  headmaster  oJ^, 
Vexton  Stultifer  school — for  the  Eev.  Dr.  Carteret  had  that 
degree  of  importance — seemed  inclined  to  follow  it  up. 

"  Not  at  all  so,  Emilia,  not  at  all  so !  It  is  unfair  to  say  so." 
He  intensified  his  meaning  with  a  frown  and  a  forefinger,  as  soon 
as  the  hand  it  was  on  had  stowed  away  his  recent  pocket-hand- 
kerchief. "  Most  unfair !  When — your — boy,  Emilia,  was  in 
the  first  form,  I  said  the  same  about  him  that  I  say  now.  Simple 
lack  of  concentration!  And  I  can  tell  you  this,  Emilia — and 
you  may  just  as  well  listen.   ..." 

"  I  know  perfectly  well  Avhat  you  are  going  to  say." 

"  Perhaps  you  do.  Perhaps  you  don't.  An3'how,  if  that  boy 
had  been  left  in  my  hands,  to  manage  my  own  way   ..." 

"  He  was  a  boy  in  your  school.  Why  didn't  you  manage  him 
your  own  way  ?  " 

"  You  are  quite  right,  Emilia.  I  used  the  wrong  expression. 
I  did  not  mean  to  suggest  the  least  that  you  impeded  or  encum- 
bered my  management  of  him.  On  the  contrary,  you  kept 
loyally  to  your  undertaking  to  give  me  a  free  hand.  What  I 
meant  to  say  was  ..."  But  it  seemed  to  call  for  a  little  recon- 
sideration, for  the  Doctor  paused  over  a  pinch  of  snuff  to  amend 
it  for  publication.  "  I  should  say  perhaps  that  what  I  ought 
to  have  said  was  that,  all  the  circumstances  taken  into  considera- 
tion, I  was  the  wrong  tutor  for  him.  A  brother's  son  is  not  like 
another  boy,  nor  perhaps  ..."  He  stopped  abruptly,  as  a 
speaker  stops  who  knows  what  he  is  going  to  say,  but  leaves 
it  unsaid. 

"  You  know  that  I  don't  agree  with  you  about  that.  Was  it 
not  his  father's  wish  that  you  should  always  take  charge  of 
the  boy?" 

"  Yes — yes — that  was  so.  Was  so  certainly,  I  should  say.  .  .  . 
Yes — what  were  you  going  to  say  ?  " 

"  Nothing.  Only  that  we  have  said  all  this  before,  and  I  see 
no  use  going  over  it  again.  We  shall  never  agree.  Let  us  talk 
of  something  else.  Besides,  it  remains  to  be  seen  that  my  boy 
Frederic  will  not  distinguish  himself." 

"  I  shall  be  very  happy  to  hear  of  it,  when  he  does." 

"  Now  you  are  speaking  as  if  you  doubted  his  ability.  We  had 
better  not  talk  about  him.  It  always  puts  you  out  when  I  speak 
of  him." 


6  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

"  You  know  perfectly  -svell,  Emilia,  that  that  is  not  the  case. 
But,  as  you  say  truly,  we  gain  nothing  by  pursuing  this  con- 
versation.     Let  us  speak  on  some  other  subject." 

"  By  all  means.  Let  us."  But  neither  did.  It  is  very  diffi- 
cult to  make  arbitrary  choice  of  a  subject  of  conversation. 

It  took  time — not  much,  but  some — for  this  slight  threatening 
of  a  breeze  to  die  down.  During  its  subsidence  this  lady's  face 
certainly  looked  comely;  indeed,  under  the  stimulus  of  a  momen- 
tary vexation,  it  looked  more.  It  looked,  and  was,  beautiful. 
But  there  was  no  one  there  to  see  except  the  reverend  head- 
master, and  he  was  not  concerned  with  such  matters.  Besides, 
he  had  known  her  over  thirty-five  years,  and  she  was  his  brother's 
widow.  So  he  took  snuff  and  looked  at  the  fire,  not  at  her.  His 
face  had  claims  too,  and  meant  to  have  more  when  he  grew  still 
older  and  whiter.  It  was  massive  and  commanding  anyhow,  and 
the  sneeze  that  followed  a  pinch  of  snuff  shook  the  glass  vases 
on  the  marble  top  of  the  curvilinear  chiffonier  at  the  far  end  of 
the  Victorian  drawing-room  where  they  sat,  and  made  them  ring. 
He  appeared  to  wait  for  the  echo  to  die ;  and  then,  as  though  it 
had  asked  for  the  right  time,  looked  at  his  watch  and  said 
twenty-to-three. 

"  Must  you  go?  "  said  his  sister-in-law.  "  I  don't  mean  must 
you  go  now  if  that  train  is  to  be  caught.  I  suppose  that's  in- 
evitable.    I  mean  wouldn't  to-morrow  do  as  well  ?  " 

"  No,  hardly — hardly !  I  want  a  few  hours  to  read  through 
my  letters.  JBesides,  I've  told  them  at  the  hotel.  However,  I 
needn't  go  for  a  few  minutes.     I  shall  find  a  cab  on  the  stand." 

Evidently,  a  short  chat  would  fill  out  those  few  minutes,  v»'itn 
a  further  oblivion  for  the  tiff.  "  You  always  make  a  great  point 
of  the  first  day  of  the  term,  Dru,"  said  the  lady,  as  keynote  for 
such  a  chat.  "But  an  hour  or  so  late  wouldn't  matter,  if 
vou  went  on  Monday  morning.  I  see  that  you  have  to  be 
there." 

"  Absolute  necessity,"  said  the  headmaster.  "  Abso-lute 
necessity!  "\^niat  would  happen  if  I  were  not  there,  when  the 
boys  assemble  on  ]\Ionday,  the  Lord  only  knows !  "  He  seemed 
to  be  picturing  to  himself  a  Chaos  in  the  school  at  his  defection, 
and  to  be  amused  at  it.  "  To  do  the  boys  justice,  I  believe  they 
would  be  as  much  upset  at  the  incident  as  it  is  in  the  nature 
of  boys  to  be  at  anything.  If  they  could  make  me  miss  my  train, 
themselves,  they  would  regard  it  all  as  strictly  in  order,  and 
rather  a  lark,  in  their  phraseology.  But,  for  the  thing  to  happen 
of  its  own  accord  !     Never  do — never  do  at  all !  " 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  7 

"If  they  were  set  to  scour  the  country  to  find  you,  they  would 
appreciate  that." 

"  Bless  my  soul  yes,  that  they  would !  But  then,  after  that, 
they  wouldn't  be  contented  unless  a  master  was  missing  every 
day."  He  seemed  enormously  amused  at  the  picture  that  this 
developed  in  his  imagination ;  probably  that  of  a  school  subject 
to  the  daily  deficit  of  an  important  master,  under  these  condi- 
tions. But  he  enjoyed  it  in  silence,  with  a  twinkle  on  his  face; 
and  this  fragment  of  chat  having  served  its  turn  as  an  antidote 
to  whatever  there  was  controversial  in  the  previous  one,  the  lady 
thought  it  unnecessary  to  say  anything  further. 

A  cat  on  the  hearthrug,  that  had  slept  through  the  conversa- 
tion, thought  the  silence  a  good  opportunity  to  stretch  itself  and 
turn  round.  A  dachshund,  that  had  been  grilling  inside  the 
fender,  came  over  it  suddenly  as  to  a  business  appointment,  smelt 
the  cat  carefully,  decided  that  no  steps  could  be  taken  at  present, 
and  went  back.  A  little  quickstep  gold  watch  on  the  chimney- 
piece  kept  well  alongside  the  solemn  pace  of  a  neighbouring  clock, 
but  made  no  effort  to  fall  in  and  keep  time.  The  post  came,  and 
the  lady  said  Lipscombe  would  bring  it  in;  but  it  wasn't  till 
Lipscombe  had  brought  it  in,  and  she  herself  was  biting  a 
thoughtful  lip  over  its  contents,  that  the  reverend  headmaster 
said,  as  one  who  sums  up  Time-to-date : — "  Well — all  very  good, 
so  far !  And  now  I  must  be  off,  or  I  shan't  have  time  to  see  over 
this  house.  It's  a  perfectly  crazy  idea  to  take  such  a  huge  place, 
but  I  can't  veto  the  scheme  without  seeing  it." 

"  How  long  will  it  take  you  to  drive  there  ?  " 

"  In  a  cab?     Over  an  hour." 

"  And  when  you  have  seen  the  house,  you  will  have  to  drive 
to  Wimbledon.     How  long  will  that  take  ?  " 

"  I  shall  not  keep  the  cab.  I  shall  walk  to  Wimbledon.  I 
shall  catch  the  five-thirty  from  Waterloo.  But  I  haven't  too 
much  time.  ...  Oh  yes — time  enough,  but  not  too  much."  He 
declined  to  have  a  four-wheeler  sent  for,  and  was  heard  talking 
to  himself  down  the  stairs,  or  replying  to  their  creaks  as  they 
acknowledged  his  eighteen  stone.  His  sister-in-law  listened  to 
his  exit,  and  returned  to  her  letter. 

She  expected  to  see  the  old  boy  again  shortly — at  her  son's 
wedding  at  any  rate,  if  not  earlier — and  the  sHght  asperity  of 
their  recent  talk  was  not  of  a  sort  to  call  for  a  reconciliation; 
scarcely  a  tiff,  in  fact.  But  she  was  mistaken,  for  she  never  saw 
him  again. 


CHAPTER  II 

Sometimes  summer  is  in  such  a  hurry  in  England  that  it 
comes  in  spring,  and  finding  it  too  cold  goes  away  disgusted  and 
never  comes  back.  It  had  done  so  this  time,  as  far  as  the  pre- 
mature arrival  went,  and  the  bicycling  season  had  set  in  early. 
Cinty  Eraser  and  her  sister  Elbows  were  bicycling  up  from  Gipsy 
Hill,  Upper  Norwood,  to  lunch  at  Mrs.  Carteret's  and  go  to  the 
Sunday  afternoon  service  at  St.  Paul's  at  three  o'clock,  with  Fred. 
And  of  course  they  were  not  obhged  to  go  to  church  in  the  morn- 
ing, too.     Anyhow,  they  weren't  going,  that  was  fiat ! 

Cinty's  real  name  was  Cintra,  not  Cynthia,  and  her  sister's 
wasn't  Elbows  at  all.  It  was  Ann;  or,  for  speech,  Nancy.  The 
name  Elbows  was  not  known  to  either  Cintra  or  herself.  But 
she  was  known  by  it  to  Fred,  who  was  engaged  to  her  younger 
sister;  and  spoken  of  too  by  it  by  his  intimate  bosom  friend 
Snaith,  whenever  he  honoured  her  by  mentioning  her  to  that 
cheeky  young  upstart  of  an  attorney.  This  was  the  way  in  which 
Elbows,  or  Ann,  spoke  of  liim.  She  may  have  had  some  sus- 
picion of  the  way  in  which  he  spoke  of  her,  and  it  may  have 
vitalised  her  epithets.  She  certainly  was  hardly  a  beauty, 
though  her  face  was  very  refreshing;  and  she  was  angular.  But 
she  could  bicycle. 

"  Of  all  the  sickening  neighbourhoods,"  said  she  to  her  sister. 
She  seemed  to  think  the  sentence  would  do,  with  no  further 
addition.  They  were  in  a  suburban  desolation,  a  district  of 
Estates  that  had  matured,  and  were  ripe  for  building,  but  looked 
as  if  they  would  disagree  with  the  stomach  of  the  metropolis 
that  was  going  to  assimilate  them.  Estates  on  which  an  in- 
fatuated anticipation  of  a  beery  world  had  planted,  with  feverish 
haste,  at  the  street  corners  of  its  credulity,  ginshops  and  pot- 
houses deserted  by  hypothesis,  but  nursing  a  belief  that  trade 
would  look  up.  Fields  were  there,  or  places  where  there  had 
been  fields,  overrun  at  right  angles  by  roads,  or  places  where 
there  were  to  be  roads. ,  Old  suburban  homes  were  there,  trying 
to  forget  the  voices  of  their  last  tenants — trying  to  make  believe 
that  others  would  be  found  to  come  and  take  them  at  a  rental 
that  would  console  the  maturity  of  their  estate  for  the  loss  of  so 

8 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  9 

much  valuable  frontage  to  the  main  road ;  murmuring  to  them- 
selves, in  the  person  of  the  young  man  from  Smith's  the  house- 
agent,  that  they  were  really  in  substantial  repair,  and  only 
wanted  a  touch  of  paint  and  repapering  throughout,  and  maybe 
the  shutter  fastenings  would  want  looking  to,  while  as  for  the 
drains  the  last  tenant  had  had  them  overhauled  quite  lately,  but 
you  could  see  for  yourself. 

Such  a  house  was  The  Cedars^  a  derelict  in  a  desert,  a  close- 
shuttered  survivor  of  the  years  gone  by;  a  courageous  adventurer 
into  its  Future  of  change — change  for  the  worse !  If  the  two 
trees  it  had  its  name  from  ever  spoke  of  their  past  to  each  other, 
it  must  have  bc^?n  to  say  that  their  worst  anticipations  were  come 
true.  For  the  rooms  that  had  looked  out  upon  them  in  the  days 
when  their  lawn  was  a  mowing-machine's  delight,  when  the  great 
iron  gate  you  could  see  them  through  now  could  really  be  un- 
locked with  a  key  to  let  your  carriage  in,  and  its  wheels  could 
sound  its  expectation  of  hospitality  awaiting  you  over  a  gravel 
path  clean-weeded  day  by  day — those  rooms  were  eyeless  now 
to  see  them  as  of  old,  and  tenantless  within.  Even  the  rats  had 
fled  to  seek  unconsumed  larders  elsewhere.  Xothing  was  left 
to  interrupt  the  leisurely  Decay ;  to  interfere  with  the  worm's  last 
supper  on  the  mouldered  joist,  the  last  nibble  of  the  half -starved 
mouse  from  the  fallen  wallpaper  strip  upon  the  floor.  And  in 
the  garden  the  dandelion,  and  a  blue  corncockle  here  and  there, 
meant  soon  to  have  the  lonely  place  to  themselves,  till  the 
polygonum  should  come  and  take  over  the  inheritance.  But  for 
many  seasons  after  the  big  gate  was  last  locked  you  might  have 
looked  through  it  and  smelt  the  roses  as  they  made  their  fight 
for  life  against  the  weeds;  while  field  and  garden  without  fell, 
year  by  year,  to  the  coming  town,  and  the  pothouse-spotted 
desolation  grew. 

Through  this  desolation  rode  the  bicyclists,  and  the  younger 
one  made  no  attempt  to  defend  it.  On  the  contrary,  she  seemed 
quite  prepared  to  endorse  it. — ''  This  is  the  very  sickeningest," 
said  she,  completing  her  sister's  unfinished  comment.  She  had 
to  shout  loud,  because  she  was  in  front,  as  she  continued : — "  But 
you  know  Freddy  and  I  are  in  love  with  The  Cedars.  We  are 
sure  it  must  be  haunted.  Only — the  roof !  And  the  floors ! ! 
And  the  sewers  ! ! !  " 

"  Is  that  where  the  child's  toy  was  ?  " 

"  My  stars,  Nancy,  how  you  do  remember  things !  A  doll 
stuck  through  a  broken  drum.  From  last  time  it  was  a  nursery. 
You're  touched,  I  suppose?  " 


10  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

"  You're  an  unfeeling  little  pig.  Go  on  if  you're  going  on. 
Or  else  let  me  pass.   ..." 

"•'  There's  no  room.  You'll  be  in  the  ruts.  Or  knock  me  in. 
And  it's  wet  clay.  ..."  But  in  a  few  seconds  clean  dry 
ground  was  reached;  and  Nancy,  far  the  better  bicyclist,  came 
up  alongside,  enabling  her  sister  to  drop  her  voice  to  normal. 
"  I  am  all  for  taking  The  Cedars.  But  they  want  fifteen  hun- 
dred for  the  twenty  years  unexpired.  And  it  will  cost  every 
penny  of  four  to  put  it  in  even  decent  repair." 

Nancy  had  a  matter-of-fact,  confiding  nature,  which  had  given 
way  to  the  spoiled  self-assertion — called  pertness  by  Fred's  uncle, 
and  cheek  by  his  friend  Mr.  Snaith — of  her  pretty  younger 
sister  Cinty.  So  she  accepted  that  young  monkey's  statement 
that  four  hundred  pounds  would  repair  The  Cedars  with  a  full 
belief  in  some  qualifying  experience,  acquired  Heaven  knows 
when,  of  prices  per  foot-super  of  slates  and  flooring,  and  paint- 
ino;  and  glazing  and  whitewashing  and  "  sanitation."  All  of 
which  Cinty  really  knew  nothing  about.  She  enlarged  upon  the 
su])ject  nevertheless,  and  the  dexterity  with  which  she  paraded 
her  few  data  imposed  on  her  sister's  simplicity,  and  prompted 
the  latter,  in  the  present  case,  to  say : — "  What  a  lot  you  have  got 
to  know  about  it,  Cit !  "  And  Cit  responded : — "  As  much  as 
most  people,  I  suppose  " — rather  scornfully,  and  made  Elbows 
feel  that  she  was  behind  the  times  about  sanitation. 

"  You  never  told  us,  at  home,  about  The  Cedars,  Cit,"  said 
she,  rather  reproachfully.  For  the  Fraser  family  were  old- 
fashioned,  and  all  of  them  told  their  day's  story  over  the  evening 
dinner-table  to  all  the  others. 

"Yes,  I  did — where  the  child's  toy  was.   ..." 

"  Oh  yes — you  told  us  that.  But  not  about  the  repairs  and 
the  estimate,  and  all  that  sort  of  thing." 

"  Well — there  wasn't  any  estimate.  It  was  all  vague."  Per- 
haps Cintra  then  felt  she  had  been  talking  at  random,  for  a 
semi-self-exculpation  followed.  "  Besides,  there's  lots  of  places 
we've  looked  at  I  haven't  told  you  about.  I  can't  remember 
them  all." 

They  then  rode  on  side-by-side  along  the  level  road.  Nancy 
felt  rather  chilled  and  crushed  by  hearing  that  information  had 
been  withheld;  perhaps  had  a  foreboding  of  the  family-disrup- 
tion-feeUng  that  was  to  come  with  the  wedding.  This  does  not 
dawn  because  of  a  mere  betrothal,  which  may  be  forgotten  to- 
morrow.    But  when  it  comes  to  house-hunting  .    .    .  ! 

However,  Nancy  was  not  badly  chilled,  only  a  little.     Not  so 


i 

I 


<( 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  11 

little  though  but  what  her  sister  knew  all  about  it,  sisterwise, 
and  fashioned  her  speech  towards  amends-making. 

"  Of  course  one  means  to  tell,  and  then  one  doesn't.  There's 
such  lots  of  things.  However,  1  did  mean  this  one — so  you 
needn't  look  so  glum,  Nancy  dear.  ...  Here's  a  motor  coming ! 
Look  out !  "  A  whirl,  a  roar,  two  pair  of  goggles,  a  dust-cloud, 
and  a  stench  one  hopes  Chemistry  is  ashamed  of !  "  Oh  dear ! — 
what  I  was  saying  has  gone  out  of  my  head.  That  beastly 
thing !  " 

"I'm  not  glum.  Oof! — wait  till  this  stench  is  done.  .  .  . 
There!  Now  tell.  Wasn't  the  house  too  big,  apart  from  the 
repairs  ?  " 

Well — you  saw  it." 

Yes,  and  it  looked  too  big.     It's  five  windows  wide,  and  a 
sort  of  schoolhouse — built  on  to  it." 

"  It  was  a  school,  you  know.    ..." 

"  Cinty  dear,  aren't  you  rather  a  goose  ?  " 

"  I  don't  see  it.     What  for?" 

"  Why ! — to  so  much  as  think  of  taking  a  great  huge  house 
with  eighteen  bedrooms !  You  are  a  goose."  Nancy  seemed 
to  think  there  was  no  doubt  about  it. 

"  I  don't  see  it.  Half  of  it  would  let.  The  annex-building 
would  always  let.  And  the  large  room  at  the  back  would  do 
for  Frederic's  workshop."  Cintra  had  sometimes  a  tendency 
to  drop  "  Fred."  She  had  a  sense  of  the  coming  dignity  of 
real  marriage,  and  this  was  a  tribute  to  it.  She  continued : — 
"  And  the  side  drawing-room  with  the  handsome  mantelpiece 
for  Frederic's  library.  And  the  little  off-room  on  the  stairs  for 
a  sort  of  Office.  There  wouldn't  be  any  rooms  going  begging. 
You  may  be  sure  of  that."  She  continued  developing  the  sub- 
ject, suggesting  to  her  hearer  more  and  more  the  idea  that  she 
had  given  up  the  prospect  of  life  at  The  Cedars  with  reluctance. 

But  then,  Nancy  reflected,  she  had  been  quite  as  keen  yester- 
day about  a  flat  in  Westminster  with  a  beautiful  view  over  the 
park.  If  Nancy  had  had  more  experience  of  young  couples 
nesting,  she  would  have  known  that  they  all  go  through  an 
ecstatic  period  of  house-inspection,  and  that  while  the  fever  is 
on  them  the  object  of  life  is  not  to  arrive  at  a  decision,  but 
to  see  new  premises;  that  the  obvious  unsuitability  of  each  new 
find  only  acts  as  a  stimulus  to  closer  examination  of  it  on  its 
merits;  and  that  the  raising  of  the  expectations  of  lessors  and 
vendors  to  the  highest  possible  pitch  is  a  delirious  joy,  which  only 
reaches  its  climax  after  repeated  visits  by  appointment  and  inter- 


12  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

views  with  builders  and  surveyors^  when  it  becomes  manifest  that 
if  only  the  north  rooms  had  looked  south  and  the  south  rooms 
north,  or  there  hadn't  been  any  rent  to  pay,  to  speak  of;  or  if 
it  had  been  on  gravel  instead  of  clay,  or  five  miles  nearer  town — 
why,  then  they  would  have  taken  it  at  once,  but  as  it  is  can  only 
decide  in  the  negative  and  enjoy  the  execrations  of  their  victims, 
and  go  away  and  see  still  more  premises,  and  more,  and  more. 
Miss  Cintra  Fraser  and  Mr.  Frederic  Carteret  were  in  fact — 
over  and  above  being  in  a  seventh  heaven  of  Love — in  an  eighth 
or  ninth  or  tenth  heaven  of  almost  solid  air-castle  building,  with 
real  live  proprietors  and  house-agents  worked  in,  who  experienced 
real  annoyance  when  their  bubbles  burst;  and  who,  as  their 
tormentors  stirred  up  the  soap  for  a  new  one,  made  real  reso- 
lutions that  they  would  never  be  taken  in  in  the  same  way  again, 
and  were. 

"  Yes,"  said  Cintra,  as  they  drew  near  to  a  main  road  with  a 
stream  of  traffic,  where  conversation  was  going  to  be  impossible, 
"  it's  very  trying  having  to  give  up  the  idea  of  The  Cedars, 
when  I  know  it  could  be  made  do.  And  you  know,  Nance,  you 
could  have  a  room  there  to  do  your  enamels,  and  a  gas-furnace, 
and  come  every  day,  and  we  could  work  it  all  together.  .  .  . 
Oh,  how  I  do  hate  this  dreadful  road  !    Three  snorters  already !  " 

"  You  can  always  catch  hold  of  the  handles,"  says  Miss  Xancy, 
whose  normal  form  on  a  bicycle  is  to  put  her  hands  behind  her 
back  or  in  her  pockets,  except  when  she  is  promoting  intercourse 
between  her  nose  and  her  pocket-handkerchief.  Or,  of  course, 
when  she  wants  to  romp  along  the  road  like  a  Demon — this 
expression  is  borrowed  from  a  young  friend  of  ours,  a  bicyclist. 
But  when  crawling  seven  miles  an  hour,  Xancy  could  read  net 
six-shilling  volumes  as  easily  as  not. 

The  two  young  ladies  arrived  an  hour  later  at  Maida  Vale, 
without  casualt}'.  Both  said,  as  they  alighted: — "Saved  our 
lives !  " 

Cinty  said  to  Xancy : — "  That  was  a  near  squeak  between  the 
'bus  and  that  red  horror."  And  Nancy  replied  that  if  you  were 
going  to  fuss  about  that  sort  of  thing  you  had  better  give  up 
riding  at  once.     '"  Perhaps  I  had,  dear,"  said  Cinty. 

The  little  dachshund  answered  the  bell,  and  had  the  street 
door  and  garden  gate  opened.  He  then  overhauled  the  bicycles 
— attended  to  the  tyres  and  the  lubrication — till  his  attention 
was  called  away  by  some  friends  across  the  road. 

"  Has  Mr.  Frederic  come,  Lipscombe  ?  " 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  13 

"  I  believe  not.  Miss."  Lipscombe  leads  a  life  of  cautious 
reserves,  behind  a  white  apron.  She  takes  sixteen  pounds,  and 
might  even  ask  eighteen  if  she  were  just  an  inch  longer.  But 
it  is  just  that  inch  that  makes  the  difference,  in  a  parlour  maid. 
She  sheds  bitter  tears  over  that  missing  inch,  and  often  prays 
for  a  high  fever  that  she  may  grow  it  in  a  week.  But  no  burning 
quotidian  tertian  comes  to  Lipscombe's  rescue,  and  she  remains 
five-feet-four. 

"  I  hope  nothing's  hai^pened  to  Fred."  Cintra,  who  speaks,  is 
unconsciously  swayed  by  a  great  natural  Law — the  one  which 
makes  us  alt  believe  we  are  safe  because  wo  are  not  somewhere 
else.  Other  people  are,  and  you  never  know  what  may  not  have 
happened.  Kow,  Cinty  and  Nancy,  between  Gipsy  Hill  and 
Maida  Yale,  had  been  twenty  times  within  an  ace  of  death — 
especially  that  time  when  both  were  between  a  tram  going  one 
way  and  a  Daimler  going  the  other — and  Mr.  Fred  had  only  to 
come  from  his  chambers.  Safe  enough,  in  all  conscience !  But 
then  these  girls,  in  their  relation  to  themselves,  were  on  the  spot, 
and  knew  all  about  it.  So  Cintra  hoped,  conversationally,  that 
nothing  had  happened  to  Fred,  and  exposed  herself  to  the 
derision  of  her  sister. 

Nothing  had  happened;  and  the  young  man  himself,  arriving 
close  on  their  heels,  had  evidently  not  been  uneasy  about  them. 
He  was  quite  full  of  a  New  Idea,  an  awfully  good  one.  He 
always  was,  but  this  time  it  was  an  awfully  better  than  usual 
one. '  And  he  shut  out  the  returning  dachshund  unfeelingly,  he 
was  so  full  of  it. 

"I  think  it's  the  best  notion  yet,  far  and  away,"  said  he, 
exultingly.  "  It  came  into  my  head  over  that  ship-propeller 
business,  and  really  I've  been  awake  all  night  thinking  it  out. 
I've  got  it  now,  down  to  the  ground." 

"  You  are  so  clever,  dearest !  "  said  Cintra. 

"  But  you've  shut  Liebig  out,"  said  Nancy.  For  that  was 
actually  the  name  of  this  dog,  and  he  was  dabbing  the  gate  and 
singing  a  most  pathetic  song  about  a  little  black  dachshund  that 
got  shut  out  of  a  front  garden  in  Maida  Yale.  Miss  Nancy 
carried  him  upstairs,  going  on  in  front  of  the  lovers ;  but  whether 
to  give  them  greater  latitude  or  because  she  was  not  exactly  nuts 
upon  her  future  brother-in-law,  who  can  say  ?  She  certainly  had 
used  that  expression  about  him,  in  confidence  to  friends;  also, 
she  was  sure  he  spoke  of  her  disparagingly  to  that  odious  Snaith 
creature.     Only  she  didn't  know  that  he  called  her  "  Elbows." 

Of  course  Miss  Ann,  or  Nancy,  Fraser  was  rather  a  plain  girl, 

2 


14  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

and  at  tliree-and-twenty  was  not  likely  to  be  anything  else.  But 
she  made  no  claims,  and  was  to  all  appearance  content  without 
admirers.  So  she  had  a  right  to  ask  to  be  exempt  from  over- 
hauling and  classification,  horsewise.  Surely  when  Amaryllis 
isn't  asking  you  to  sport  with  her  in  the  shade,  you  needn't  go 
out  of  your  way  to  call  her  gawky.  If  Neacra  has  not  placed 
the  tangles  of  her  hair  at  your  disposal,  but  brushed  them  fiat 
and  screwed  them  up  tight,  it  isn't  fair  to  reflect  upon  their 
quantity;  when,  for  anything  you  know,  there  might  be  heaps 
if  it  was  let  out.  Nor  to  ascribe  motives  to  Neacra  because  she 
doesn't  dress  in  a  low  neck.  Until  you've  seen  her  in  a  low 
neck,  or  at  least  a  V,  you  really  can't  tell.  And  the  expression 
"  collar-hones "  is  inexcusable  in  any  case,  because  they  are  a 
bone  which  is  never  imperceptible,  except  in  Dowagers  of  full 
habit.  But  admirers  who  w^ere  not  so  narrow-minded  as  to  be 
susceptible  only  to  mere  impact,  might  have  inserted  a  note  of 
admiration  after  Nancy's  eyes.  Surely  they  were  the  very 
frankest  eyes  that  you  never  cared  to  examine  carefully  enough 
to  see  if  they  were  grey  or  hazel. 

We  are  saying  all  this  to  counteract,  if  possible,  an  impression 
you  must  have  derived  from  the  detestable  epithet  "  Elbows." 
It  would  have  been  much  fairer  to  say  at  once  that  Nancy  was 
a  reasonably  comely  girl  who  held  her  possibly  bony  self  up- 
right; had  smooth  brown  hair,  a  slightly  warped  nose  and 
pleasant  eyes,  and  could  whistle  like  a  boy — and  then  allow  Mr. 
Fred's  disparagement  to  do  its  worst.  And  it  would  have 
saved  time,  which  is  very  necessary  now  that  we  are  not  mid- 
Yictorians. 

Nancy's  indifference  to  her  ov/n  looks  may  have  been  somehow 
connected  with  her  susceptibility  to  beauty  in  other  women. 
Nancy  was  always  in  love.  She  would  lie  awake  like  an  over- 
excited boy  after  an  evening  at  the  play  or  the  opera,  quite  upset 
by  Columbine  or  the  prima  donna.  She  bought  and  stored 
photos  of  celebrated  beauties  whom  you  wouldn't  have  wished 
fier  to  make  bosom  friends  of.  She  would  recognise  fascinating 
exteriors  in  carriages  when  she  was  out  biking  with  her  sister; 
and  when  the  latter  asked  her  how  she  knew,  replied  that  she  had 
cut  Lady  Clachandrumdalloch  out  of  the  Graphic,  and  she  was 
quite  sure  it  w^as  her.  But  she  did  not  adore  Beauty  in  its 
Zenith  only.  Age  could  not  wither  it,  nor  custom  stale  its 
infinite  variety,  for  her;  and  although  Frederic's  mother  was  in 
her  fifties,  it  may  easily  be  that  its  dignified  remains  in  her 
were  what  made  Nancy  love  their  owner  better  than  her  pending 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  15 

brother-in-law.  Anyhow,  Mrs.  Carteret — freely  spoken  of  as 
*'  the  mother-hen  "  by  her  hcte-noirc,  Snaith — was  the  reason  why 
a  visit  to  ]\Iaitla  Vale  was  always  welcome  to  Cinty's  sister;  and 
this  time  she  felt  very  content  to  leave  the  two  spoonies  to  a 
prolonged  stairclimb,  and  to  hurry  up  to  the  lady  of  the  house 
in  the  drawing-room. 

The  mother-hen  was  recently  back  from  church,  and  seemed 
distraite  over  some  botanical  incident  in  the  greenhouse  above 
the  projecting  street-door  block.  The  sweet  air  of  the  premature 
summer  morning  brought  in  a  smell  of  warm  red  geranium 
plants;  not  a  smell  of  flowers  certainly,  but  something  that  was 
just  as  serviceable  towards  an  impression  that  to-day  was  like 
when  one  was  a  child,  and  was  taken  walks  and  bowled  one's 
hoop. 

"  I  suppose  it's  almost  lunch.  I  must  go.  .  .  .  Is  that  you, 
Cintra?  .  .  .  Oh  no !  .  .  .  Miss  Fraser,  is  it? "  For  Xancy 
was  Miss  Fraser,  and  there  were  two  between  her  and  her  sister ; 
one  dead,  another  married  and  gone  to  live  at  Brighton.  Miss 
Fraser  was  allowed  to  kiss  Mrs.  Carteret,  and  was  glad.  The 
dog,  Liebig,  tried  to  mix  himself  up  in  this  affair,  and  got 
checked. 

''  I'll  put  him  down,  Mrs.  Carteret— he'll  tear  your  voile — it's 
lovely!  "  But  Liebig  is  conscious  of  a  cat,  and  is  keen  to  abolish 
or  adjust  it  before  he  reaches  the  ground,  and  bursts  away  with 
a  wriffsle.  The  rescued  lavender  net  is  a  cloud  over  lavender 
silk,  and  the  gloves  Mrs.  Carteret  is  rolling  up  are  lavender. 
Her  eyes  are  not  exactly  lavender,  but  they  are  of  the  same  school 
^  as  the  voile  and  the  skirt  and  the  gloves.  After  a  short  ac- 
quaintance, one  feels  that  Mrs.  Carteret's  name,  Emilia,  is  a 
lavender-coloured  name.  She  is  a  sensitive  person  about  dress, 
who  always  smells  of  new  gloves,  and  now  she  is  anxious  to  get 
those  bicycle-things  ofE  those  two  girls  before  the  second  luncheon 
bell. 

"  You'll  find  everything  ready  upstairs."  She  is  referring  to 
non-bicycle  skirts,  prearranged.     Lipscombe  sees  to  all  that. 

"  I'll  go.  I  shall  be  quicker  than  Cinty.  I  always  am. 
We've  had  a  delicious  ride." 

"  Which  way  did  you  come  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know  how  to  describe.  Not  the  straight  way.  We 
came  round  to  get  a  sight  of  a  house.  One  of  the  houses  Cit 
and  Fred  want  to  take.  A  lovely  old  house  to  look  at,  outside 
— only  so  big !     We  hadn't  time  to  stop  and  go  in." 

"Not  The  Cedars?" 


16  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

"  Yes,  that  was  the  name.  Such  a  dear  old  place  with  two 
great  Cedars  of  Lebanon  on  the  lawn,  and  all  going  to  decay. 
A  perfect  place  to  live  in." 

Mrs.  Carteret  smiled  sedately !  "  Just  the  place  for  a  young 
couple  with  a  small  income!  It's  the  place  my  boy  is  always 
raving  about — the  madhouse,  that  was." 

"Was  it  a  madhouse?  Cit  never  told  me  that."  Nancy's 
voice  shrank,  conscious  of  the  horror  of  madhouses. 

"  Perhaps  she  doesn't  know.      Fred  may  not  have  told  her." 

"  She  won't  want  to  live  there  when  she  does  know.  A  mad- 
house !  " 

"Oh,  as  to  their  taking  it,  of  course  that's  absurd!  His 
guardian  would  never  consent  to  anything  so  ridiculous." 

''Of  course  he  wouldn't!"  Nancy  felt  safe,  directly,  as  an 
image  of  the  liev.  Drury  passed  across  her  mental  retina.  "  If 
he  were  to  see  the  place  only  from  the  outside,  he  would 
put  liis  foot  down  at  once.     I'm  sure  he  would." 

■•  Oh,  for  that  matter,  he  lias  seen  it.  At  least,  I  believe  so. 
He  went  straight  away  to  look  at  it  after  he  was  here  to  lunch 
yesterday,  and  1  hope  he  caught  the  five-o'clock  train.  Now,  my 
dear  Miss  Fraser,  do  forgive  me !  But  really  it's  ten  minutes 
to  one,  and  remember  you  have  to  be  at  St.  Paul's  by  three." 

'•  All  right,  Mrs.  Carteret.  I  shall  be  ready  before  Cit  You 
see  if  I'm  not." 

■•  Oh — such  a  disappointment !  "     Thus  the  bride-elect  to  her 
elector,  awaiting  her  in  the  drawing-room.     The  bicycle  skirt  has 
disappeared,  and  the  limbs  it  almost  made  a  parade  of — certainly 
was  not  sensitive  about — have  retired  into  private  life.     Cintra  * 
is  a  young  lady  again ! 

"What's  the  disappointment?"  savs  Fred. 

"The  Cedars." 

"What  about  The  Cedars?" 

"  Your  Uncle  Drury  says  it's  too  big.  I  suppose  it  is."  This 
is  said  most  ruefully. 

"  Oh  rot!  Besides,  Uncle  Drury  hasn't  seen  it.  How  can  he 
tell?"  Cintra,  keeping  rueful,  checks  false  conclusions  with  a 
corrective  headshake,  and  says: — "He  lias  seen  it.  He  went 
there  after  he  came  here  on  Thursday.  And  he  says  it's  too  big. 
Heaps!  Besides,  it  was  a  madhouse.  It  was,  wasn't  it?  You 
said  so."  This  is  addressed  to  Nancy,  who  is  bringing  up  the 
rear,  re-skirted  up  to  Society  point. 

Nancy  is  truthfulness  itself,  and  won't  stand  inaccuracy  or 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  17 

exaggeration,  "  Yes — that's  all  right !  "  says  she.  "  About  the 
madhouse.  But  I  didn't  say  Dr.  Carteret  said  it  was  too  big 
after  he'd  seen  it.  He  said  that  before.  Then  he  went  away 
to  look  at  it,  and  catch  the  five-o'clock  train."  It  speaks 
volumes  for  Nancy's  veracity  that  she  adds : — "  If  possible." 
"  What  did  he  say  after?  That's  what  I  want  to  know." 
"  Nothing — at  least,  I  don't  know.  You  must  ask  Mrs. 
Carteret."  At  this  point  Mr.  Fred,  who  has  remained  outside 
the  discussion  with  visible  mistrust  in  his  eye  of  all  young  ladies' 
testimony  on  all  subjects,  appends  a  side-note.  Yes — that's  the 
idea !     Ask  his  mother,  who  is  just  coming  downstairs. 

But  that  lady  has  after  all  nothing  to  tell.  "  ily  dear 
Freddy,"  she  says,  shrugging  her  shoulders  with  a  slight  action 
of  hands  that  lay  an  indisputable  truth  open  to  Heaven  and 
Earth: — "You  know  your  Uncle.  Is  it  likely  he  would  write? 
He  said  positively  the  house  was  far  too  big — so  it  is! — but  he 
supposed  he  must  see  over  it,  as  a  matter  of  form.  Then  he 
went  away,  and  no  doubt  saw  over  it.  I  don't  expect  to  hear 
from  him  yet  and  very  likely  he  won't  write  at  all." 

"  Yes !  "  said  Mr.  Frederic.  "  That's  just  like  Uncle  Drury." 
"  Perhaps,"  suggested  Cintra,  "  it  made  him  change  his  mind." 
"  Not  he !  "  replietl  Fred.  "  He  is  Obstinacy  itself,  like  the 
Pyramids."  Nobody  quarrelled  with  the  metaphor,  but  that 
may  have  been  because  Lipscombe  said  lunch  was  on  the  table. 
The  little  dachshund  pretended  that  he  had  said  it,  and  went 
down  first  to  the  dining-room. 

Pending  his  particular  concession  of  roast  mutton,  invariable 
on  Sundays,  Mr.  Fred  had  an  item  of  news  to  tell.  Who  did 
the  public  generally  think  was  engaged  to  be  married?  The 
public  guessed  wrong,  and  gave  it  up.  Why — Charley !  The 
public  was  incredulous,  on  the  ground  that  no  one  of  ilr. 
Snaith's  personality  could  possibly  have  engaged  the  affections 
of  a  sex  whose  good  taste  is  proverbial.  "  He  is  engaged,  for  all 
that !  "  said  his  friend,  not  without  a  certain  triumph  in  his 
voice.  "  And,  what's  more,  to  a  very  pretty  girl.  He's  en- 
gaged to  a  Miss  Hinchliffe."  Incredulity  seemed  abashed  by  so 
circumstantial  a  name.  It  might  have  ignored  or  slighted 
Smith  or  Brown,  but  Hinchliffe  was  a  name  to  make  you  sit  up 
and  think.  !Mrs.  Carteret  went  the  length  of  wondering  whether 
the  young  lady  was  one  of  those  Hinchliffes.  Her  son  said  he 
thought  she  was — he  didn't  know.  But  there  was  money.  She 
said  thereon  that  then  it  was  pretty  sure  to  be  those  Hinchliffes. 
Miss  Nancy  said  you  might  trust  Mr.  Snaith  for  that,  and  Mr, 


18  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

Fred  said : — "  No — really  Charley's  not  that  sort  of  fellow." 
Public  opinion  turned  favourably  for  Mr.  Snaith,  and  silenced 
Miss  Nancy.  Then  the  tendency  of  this  new  fiancee  to  occupy 
a  place  in  History  was  nipped  in  the  bud  by  Mrs.  Carteret  sud- 
denly recollecting  that  those  Hinehliffes  were  not  Hinchliffes, 
but  Hinchclift'cs.  It  took  time  to  reinstate  Mr.  Snaith's  ]\Iiss 
Hinchliffe  after  this  shock.  But  it  was  done,  and  Mr.  Fred 
stuck  to  the  money,  which  saved  her  from  extinction. 

Then  that  young  gentleman  announced  that  his  fertile  brain 
had  conceived  a  ripping  idea. 

"  Well !  "  said  Nancy.  And  the  others  said :— "  Well !  "  to 
encourage  the  ripping  idea,  as  the  young  gentleman  seemed  to 
have  announced  its  existence  before  maturing  it. 

"  What's  to  prevent  the  Hinchli'ffes   ..." 

"  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Nosey,  I  suppose,"  interjected  Nancy. 
■  "  Why — of  course  !     Who  else  could  they  be  ?  " 

"  Don't  squabble  with  Nance,  Fred.  Go  on.  '  What's  to  pre- 
vent?' you  were  saying?"  Cintra  knew  it  was  best  to  nip  dis- 
cussion of  this  sort  in  the  bud. 

"  What's  to  prevent  The  Cedars  being  made  two  houses  of, 
and  them  having  one  and  us  the  other?  " 

"  Of  course  !  Perfectly  splendid  !  The  very  thing !  "\Miy 
did  we  never  think  of  it  before  ?  "  Cintra  laid  down  her  knife 
and  fork  to  think  of  it  now. 

Fred  proceeded  to  elaborate  the  ripping  idea.  There  were  two 
staircases,  and  the  way  in  which  one  of  the  rooms  would  lend 
itself  to  conversion  into  a  second  entrance-lobby  and  a  convenient 
annex  was  little  short  of  miraculous — could  only  be  accounted 
for  on  the  supposition  that  Destiny  had  foreseen  the  present 
conjunction  of  circumstances,  and  had  lent  herself  to  their 
development.  He  was  able  to  locate  the  new  kitchen  in  the 
more  modern  wing  of  the  house,  without  trenching  on  its 
resources  of  space.  In  fact,  whatever  you  did,  there  would  still 
be  unlimited  spare  rooms.  His  faith  in  the  inexhaustible  re- 
sources of  the  mansion  naturally  provoked  reference  to  the  fact 
that  but  a  few  minutes  ago  he  had  been  discussing  it  as  suitable 
for  one  young  couple  to  begin  life  in,  with  margins  no  greater 
than  prudent  foresight  demanded. 

"  I  must  say,"  said  Fred's  sedate  mother,  from  her  pinnacle 
of  toleration  for  these  crude  young  people's  wild  schemes,  "  that 
I  do  not  think  Uncle  Drury  was  so  very  far  out  when  he  con- 
demned the  house  as  absurdly  large.      Absurdly !  " 

Her  son  hastened  to  explain  that  his  own  cautious  tempera- 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  19 

ment  had  in  fact  long  since  forced  him  to  this  conclusion,  and 
that  he  had  virtually  negatived  the  idea  unless  some  such  scheme 
of  partition  should  suggest  itself.  He  wondered  that  this  one 
had  not  occurred  to  him  immediately  on  Charley's  announcement 
of  his  felicity  3-esterday.  But  really  his  head  had  been  so  full 
of  his  new  Anti-Vibration  Duplex  Engine  that  he  could  think 
of  nothing  else. 

"  You  are  so  clever!  "  said  his  fiancee,  with  reverent  eyes  fixed 
on  him,  awestruck  at  this  last  new  outcome  of  his  genius.  His 
mother  took  absolutely  no  notice  of  the  Duplex  Engine.  It  was 
only  one  of  a  thousand  schemes,  behind  each  of  which  stood 
Opulence,  painted  full  of  dividends,  only  waiting  concentration 
on  the  part  of  its  originator.  There  now ! — if  Fred  would  only 
concentrate ! 

Mrs.  Carteret  ignored  the  Duplex,  and  passed  to  another  topic. 
Who  was  it  said  this  house  had  been  a  madhouse?  She  asked 
the  question,  but  got  nothing  for  answer  except  repetitions. 
Who  was  it? 

Cintra  recollected.  "  Stop,  I  know!  "  said  she.  "  It  wasn't 
the  dried-up  caretaker.  And  it  wasn't  the  old  husband.  It  must 
have  been  the  agent's  where  we  got  the  order  to  view — the  first 
time  we  went." 

"  Not  very  likely,"  said  Fred.  "  He  wants  to  let  the  place. 
Besides,  I  remember  what  he  said.  He  said  it  had  been  a 
doctor's  private  residence  till  seven  years  ago,  and  we  were  not 
to  take  anything  for  true  that  the  old  woman  said,  because  she 
was  half-witted,  and  her  husband  little  better." 

"  I  think,"  said  Mrs.  Carteret,  addressing  Fred,  "  I  can  see 
where  the  madhouse  story  came  from.  Your  tlncle  Drury 
repeated  to  me  all  that — about  the  doctor — and  then  said,  in 
his  positive  way : — '  A  madhouse,  of  course  ! '  You  know  your 
uncle's  positive  way  ?  " 

"  Eather !  "  said  Fred.  Then  he  appeared  to  recollect  for  a 
moment,  and  ended  by  saying : — ''  Yes — that  was  how  it  was.  I 
told  him  about  the  doctor,  and  that  the  agent  said  he  and  his 
father  before  him  had  had  the  house  for  over  sixty  years,  and 
then  Uncle  Drury  said : — '  I  see — madhouse,  of  course.'  I 
thought  he  must  know,  somehow  or  other." 

"  But  you  never  told  me,"  said  Cintra. 

"  Because  you're  a  delicate  young  female,"  said  the  youth, 
somewhat  on  his  defence,  but  brazening  it  out.  "  Delicate 
young  females  don't  take  to  madhouses  and  horrors." 

Then  he  changed  his  tone,  to  keep  on  safe  ground.     "  No — I 


20  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

thought  it  would  only  give  you  the  creeps.  Besides^  perhaps  it 
wasn't  true." 

*'■  I  prefer  being  told  things,"  says  the  young  beauty,  a  little 
'^^tiffly.     "  Whether  they  arc  false  or  true." 

•'Even  if  it's  ghosts?" 

"  Certainly.  Even  if  it's  ghosts.  So  now  you  know,  and 
mind  you  don't  do  so  any  more."  The  young  gentleman 
expresses  contrition  and  docility,  as  a  discreet  lover,  and  the 
lipple  (lies  on  the  waters. 

"  Keconciliation  and  forgiveness !  "  says  Nancy,  illustratively. 
For  her  part,  she  added,  she  thought  Fred  had  been  very  good 
and  considerate,  and  Cit  might  think  herself  in  luck.  And  as 
for  ghosts,  they  v.-ould  be  interesting  and  not  a  drawback,  unless 
they  were  the  sort  that  broke  things.  Perhaps,  however,  these 
last"  would  rank  as  phenomena,  not  ghosts. 

^Mrs.  Carteret  dissociated  herself  from  such  a  trivial,  mock 
scientific  tone.  "  I  think  it  quite  possible,"  said  she,  "  that  your 
Uncle  Drury  won't  write.  If  he  does  not,  you  may  take  it  for 
granted  that  he  thinks  The  Cedars  out  of  the  question.     I  feel 


sure." 


Said  Mr.  Fred,  thereon : — '"  Of  course  I  can't  write  to  him 
about  The  New  Scheme  without  sounding  Charley  about  it  first." 

"  And  Miss  Hinchliffe,"  says  Cintra.  She  looks  after  the 
interest  of  brides.     They  are  not  to  be  cyphers. 

"'  Of  course  Miss  Hinchliffe.  They'll  settle  it  between  'em.  I 
say,  Cit,  wouldn't  it  be  rather  a  lark  to  get  them  down  to  the 
house  for  them  to  see — without  telling  them  anything,  you  know 
— and  then  spring  The  Scheme  on  them  suddenly?" 

"  Oh  do ! — to-morrow  if  you  can.  Don't  let's  lose  an  hour. 
The  place  may  be  taken  any  minute."  This  is  Cintra.  Her 
sister  had  been  very  reserved  since  Mr.  Snaith  was  imported  into 
the  air-castle.  Then  when  a  provisional  forecast  is  made  of  an 
excursion  in  force  to  The  Cedars  on  Thursday,  she  says  she 
thinks  the  Metcalfes  are  expecting  her  on  Thursday.  She  has 
already  said : — "  Eather  Miss  Hinchliffe  than  me !  "  in  an  under- 
tone to  her  sister,  apropos  of  some  supposed  contingency  involv- 
ing that  young  person  and  her  adorer.  Fred  says  to  Cintra 
afterwards : — "  I  shall  convert  your  ferocious  sister  to  Charley 
for  all  that,  some  day.     You  see  if  I  don't! " 


CHAPTER  III 

"■  That's  what  some  do  say  it  was — a  madhouse.  Others 
says  it  was  a  Loonattick  Asylum."  This  is  what  the  deaf  old 
woman  in  charge  of  The  Cedars  said  to  the  Eev.  Drury  Carteret, 
when  he  had  shoiited  three  times: — "  Is  this  The  Cedars?"  and 
once,  when  he  found  this  form  of  question  fail: — "Is  this  the 
madhouse  ?  " 

The  old  woman  showed  no  alacrity  to  open  the  gate,  and  raised 
an  ohjection.  Had  the  reverend  gentleman  an  order  to  view? 
Ino,  he  had  not,  but  he  had  a  shilling.  He  showed  it,  and  it 
caused  a  smaller  gate  lower  down  to  be  opened  and  admitted  him 
to  the  garden. 

He  looked  very  overpowering  and  important  as  he  crushed  the 
gravel  ahead  of  his  conductor.  She  flagged  in  his  rear,  rapid 
progress  being  incompatible  with  the  secretion  of  the  shilling  in 
an  old  purse  that  would  not  shut.  He  turned,  on  arriving  at 
the  Tuscan  portico,  whose  silvery  Portland  stone,  rich  with  moss 
and  sionecrop,  had  seemed  alone  worth  the  rent  to  the  infatuated 
young  couple  who  were  rebuilding  the  house  as  an  air-castle. 
The  old  woman  seemed  to  have  said  something,  and  to  be  saying 
it  again,  for  the  first  words  the  Rev.  Drury  distinguished  were : — 
"  I  was  a  saying  would  you  mind  being  kep'  a  minute  while  I 
go  round  to  undo  the  door?  .  .  .  Xo — I  never  come  out  at  it. 
This  last  is  in  answer  to: — "  I  suppose  it  has  blown  to  with  the 
wind.  Yes,  certainly — certainly!"  He  waits,  interested  in  a 
hole  his  stick's  ferule  fits  into,  until  the  sound  comes  of  shooting 
bolts  and  a  rattling  chain,  and  the  door  opens.  The  caretaker 
perhaps  interprets  her  visitor's  severe  aspect  as  provoked  by  this 
detention  on  the  doorstep,  for  she  is  voluble  in  apology,  catching 
up  a  clue  from  her  last  words. 

"'  No — I  never  come  out  at  this  door,  bein'  it's  none  so  easy 
to  open,  owin'  to  the  'andle  being  loose,  and  indeed  not  kep'  in 
the  door  by  reason  of  falling  out  when  not  held,  so  put  on  the 
winder-seat  on  the  left  when  not  wanted,  and  as  like  as  not  a 
mistake  all  the  while.  I  just  stepped  out  by  the  side  entrance, 
and  was  a  going  to  the  side  gate,  only  I  see  you  pay  the  cab." 
A  little  attention  will  connect  the  ideas  in  this  sentence.  She 
went  on  to  a  second  chapter.      "  Excusin'  for  not  asking  you 

21 


» 


22  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

round,  but  sech  a  way  and  no  time  saved,  and  indeed  only 
through  the  sleepin'  apartments  and  not  fit.  And  on'y  the  other 
day  Grewbeer  was  a  complainin'  about  how  slovenly." 

"  Grewbeer  being  .  .  .  ? "  His  interrogatory  stop  is  good 
for  pupils  in  a  viva  voce,  but  quite  useless  with  an  old  deaf 
woman. 

"  Hay?  "  This  is  all  the  questioner  gets^  in  a  tone  suggesting 
that  he  is  needlessly  obscure. 

The  consequence  is  a  sound  of  aggressive  toleration  in  his 
voice,  and  an  olfensive  mechanical  clearness  in  his  manner. 
"  Who — is — the — person  you  are  referring  to  ?  Your  hus- 
band?" 

"  Ah !  " 

"Very  good.  Then  you  are  Mrs.  Grewbeer.  Now — where's 
the  drawing-room  ? "  His  headmaster  deportment  seems  to 
suggest — as  the  position  of  a  cross-examiner — that  the  old 
woman  has  been  keeping  back  her  surname,  which  he  has 
"  elicited  "  against  her  will ;  and  that  she  has  been  delaying  his 
introduction  to  the  drawing-room,  from  malice  aforethought. 

The  consequence  is  that  Mrs.  Grewbeer  is  nettled,  and  remains 
nettled,  in  spite  of  that  shilling.  She  withdraws  the  loose  handle 
from  the  socket  it  had  been  held  in  to  open  its  hasp,  and  then 
restores  it  to  its  window-seat  after  slamming  the  big  door  so  as 
to  wake  the  echoes  through  the  empty  house,  and  shows  him 
into  the  drawing-room,  saying  combatively : — "  There !  There's 
your  drawing-room  for  yer.  Now  how  many  shutters  do  you 
want  set  open?  Have  'em  all  if  you  like.  You've  only  got 
to  say." 

"  One's  enough.     That'll  do!  " 

"  You  can  have  'em  all  if  you  like." 

"One's  cnovgh,  I  tell  you!"  He  raises  his  voice,  as  though 
to  a  neoph3-te  who  has  been  guilty  of  a  false  quantity. 

"  You've  no  call  to  fly  out.  There's  your  one  window."  He 
surveys  the  old  wainscoted  room,  and  appears  to  disapprove  of 
it.  The  old  woman  remains  with  her  hand  on  the  shutter  till 
leave  comes  to  close  it;  then,  as  she  does  so,  mutters  what  seems 
like : — "  'Ollerin'  at  one  as  if  one  was  a  'orse  in  a  cart !  "  Then 
the  inspection  of  the  house  proceeds  on  the  same  terms,  though 
rather  more  peacefully. 

Uncle  Drury  certainly  did  his  duty  conscientiously.  He 
examined  every  room  in  the  huge  mansion,  and  apparently  de- 
cided, of  each  in  turn,  that  it  was  unfit  for  human  occupation, 
The  only  exploration  he  omitted  was  that  of  a  straight  passage, 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  23 

without  door  or  turning  on  either  side^  ending  in  a  glass  door 
which  suggested  a  conservatory  beyond,  and  was  offensively  filled 
with  blue  and  red  diamond  panes.  ''Where  does  that  go?"  he 
asked,  and  shouted  the  question  twice. 

"  That  don't  lead  nowhere.  Only  the  garden.  Through  the 
green'us." 

"  Front  or  back  garden  ?  " 

"  Front  garden.    Through  the  green'us,  like  I  told  you." 

"  Well — we  won't  waste  any  more  time  on  that."  He  looked 
at  his  watch,  and  visibly  thought  it  time  to  be  off.  He  re- 
pocketed  it,  and  then  assumed  an  incisive  air  of  business,  to  be 
transacted  promptly.  "  Now,  ma'am  !  "  said  he.  "  Perhaps 
you'll  be  so  obliging  as  to  answer  me  one  or  two  questions." 

"  Hay  ?  "  Question  repeated.  "  Suppose  you  was  to  ask  'em 
and  see,  master  !  " 

Dr.  Carteret  accepted  the  suggestion.  "  First,  what  was  the 
name  of  the  doctor  who  lived  in  this  house  ?  " 

"  Couldn't  rightly  say.     Choker,  or  Jolter." 

"  Are  you  sure  it  wasn't  Aytcholt  ?  " 

"  Might  have  been ! — Yes — that  was  it !     Aytcholt." 

"  I  thought  so.  I  needn't  ask  the  other  questions.  Hadn't 
you  better  answer  your  bell?"  For  a  distant  bell  had  pealed 
furiously  twice  during  this  conversation. 

The  old  woman  took  the  hint  and  departed  through  the  house. 
The  last  image  on  her  mind  of  the  Rev.  Drury  was  massive, 
clerical,  talking  to  itself  and  adjusting  its  coat  and  comforter  to 
forestall  the  cold  of  the  evening  air.  Her  reflections  on  the 
interview,  as  she  retrod  the  passages  they  had  come  through,  took 
the  form  of  a  prediction  that  she  would  know  the  reverend  gentle- 
man if  ever  she  come  to  see  him  again,  anyhow ! 

But  she  never  did,  and  no  man  or  woman  born  ever  saw 
Uncle  Drury  again  alive. 

The  old  woman  went  the  quicker  for  a  third  pull  at  the  bell, 
which  was  so  vigorous  that  it  had  not  knocked  off  work  when 
she  went  out  at  the  side  door,  and  was  still  good  for  a  parting 
clang  when  she  reached  the  gate. 

"  You  ain't  in  any  hurry,  missus,"  says  the  driver  of  a  cart 
standing  outside.  "  Howsomever,  now  you're  on  the  job,  maybe 
he'd  better  be  got  down  and  into  the  house.  Lend  a  hand,  3'oung 
Toadstools !  "  This  is  to  a  youngster  who  is  conversing  with 
the  horse,  through  the  nose  of  the  latter,  as  though  it  were  an 
ear. 


24  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

"  Lard's  mercy !  "  says  the  old  woman,  seeing  but  not  liearing. 
"  Who've  you  got  in  that  cart?  "  For  a  figure  is  crumpled  up 
in  the  bottom  of  the  cart,  on  some  sacks  which  recently  made 
claim  to  contain  a  chaldron  of  coke. 

*'  Couldn't  say,  myself.  My  idea  is  you  better  cast  3'our  eye 
on  him  afore  we  shift  him  out,  for  fear  he's  the  wrong  man. 
He  give  me  this  address  prettv  plain.  The  Cedars  is  right, 
ain't  it?" 

"  Oh  lard  yes ! — that's  here.  It's  my  old  man,  if  he  said  The 
Cedars.     Tell  me  what's  come  to  him^  afore  I  look  at  his  face." 

''  Oh,  he  ain't  dead,  if  that's  what  you're  a  thinkin'.  I'll  go 
bail  for  that.     Come  along  here  and  make  sure." 

]\Irs.  Grewbeer  follows  his  finger  to  the  cart-back,  and  he 
loosens  the  tilt  to  let  her  look  in.     Oh  yes — that's  her  old  man. 

But  she  is  visibly  relieved  when  it  becomes  clear  that  though 
tliere  has  evidently  been  some  mishap — enough  to  cause  traces 
of  blood  and  a  plastered  head — still  a  great  deal  of  its  owner's 
collapse  is  due  to  another  cause.  For  he  appears  to  be  lodging 
a  protest  against  the  overmuch  loquacity  of  his  contemporaries. 

"  Let  me  up  out  o'  this  " — wrongly  described — "  cart,  and  shee 
if  I  don't  larn  some  of  you  to  poll-parrot,  the  wrong  side  o'  your 
mouth.     Nothin'  but  tork,  tork,  fork,  nowadays  !  " 

"  That's  him,  for  sure !  "  says  his  wife,  recognising  a  familiar 
thesis  of  the  speaker,  through  his  half-articulate  mumble. 
"Whatever  have  you  been  a  taking  of?  He's  fell  down,  I 
suppose  ?  " 

"  That's  about  it,  and  the  other  old  chap  on  top.  Couldn't 
say  how  much  they'd  drunk  between  'em — not  to  a  harf  a  pint." 

The  manner  of  this  speech  implies  that  sentiment  would  be 
wasted.  The  old  woman  becomes  alive  to  the  fact,  saying: — 
"  You  never  mean  he's  been  fighting,  at  his  time  o'  life  ?  Come 
along  out,  Benjamin !  "  The  coke-dealer  answers,  as  he  helps 
the  wounded  man  to  his  feet: — "Just  a  turn-up,  not  a  set-to. 
Ah — he'll  walk  enough  to  get  himself  indoors !  I'll  lend  a  hand 
across  the  garden,  and  my  son  here  he'll  see  to  the  horse.  As 
you  say,  missus,  he's  getting  on  in  life,  for  this  sort  of  thing." 

Some  assistance  is  necessary ;  whether  on  account  of  contusion, 
or  drunken  helplessness,  is  not  very  clear.  Probably  the  latter, 
as  the  coke-dealer  sees  the  case.  He  goes  away,  after  helping  the 
old  woman ;  probably  because  the  injured  man  is  intoxicated,  not 
because  he  has  a  broken  head ;  enjoining  sobriety  on  his  son,  in 
a  slight  homily  suited  to  the  occasion.  "  You  lay  the  warning 
to  heart,  young  Toadstools,  and  don't  get  outside  of  a  quart. 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  25 

Inside  of  a  quart — outside  of  the  station  'us  I  That's  the  maxi- 
mum for  the  guidance  of  the  young.  You  keep  to  the  figger 
when  you're  growed  up !  Just  for  now,  bein'  small,  you  don't 
hold  above  a  harf  a  pint,  and  allowance  is  accordin'." 

The  postscript  was  no  doubt  due  to  a  fear  that  the  maximum 
or  maxim,  whichever  the  speaker  meant,  should  have  been  worded 
differently  for  ears  that  were  still  in  their  early  teens. 

The  condition  of  the  old  woman's  husband,  though  not  a 
novelty  to  her  as  far  as  Bacchus  was  concerned,  was — so  she 
said  afterwards — plenty  to  make  her  forget  all  about  the  old 
parson,  as  she  called  the  Eev.  Drury.  Indeed,  it  was  not  till 
next  day,  when  her  patient  had  slept  off  his  drunkenness,  and 
waked  to  find  himself  a  mass  of  bruises  and  penitence,  dominated 
by  a  stupendous  headache,  that  she  mentioned  her  clerical  visitor, 
having  all  but  forgotten  him  altogether  in  the  interim. 

'■'  Where  was  he  when  I  see  the  last  of  him?"  she  said,  reply- 
ing to  a  thrice-repeated  question.  '"  Wh}' — in  the  passage  over 
again  the  window-door  of  the  green'us.  Where  the  red  and  blue 
squares  o'  glass  is.  Just  off  to  go,  he  was.  I  had  to  'urry  off 
for  the  bell." 

''  If  he  followed  on,  after  you,  how  come  you  not  to  see  him 
pass  you,  through  the  gate?  "  The  old  man  asks  this  question 
after  a  good  deal  of  reflection. 

'•  Lard,  Benjamin,  how  was  I  to  have  my  eyes  two  ways  at 
once?  I'd  all  my  work  to  do,  lookin'  after  you.  He  ain't  in 
the  house  now.  vou  mav  take  your  oath  of  that,  any  day  of  the 
week."  ^  ^  -  .       . 

'■  I  ain't  a  fool,  Alison.  In  course  he's  out  o'  the  house  by 
now.  What  I'm  enquirin'  of,  now,  is — when  did  he  go  out,  and 
wha  see  him  ?  " 

The  old  woman  seemed  to  try  to  resolve  this  problem  for  the 
first  time.  "  I  should  have  let  it  stand,"  she  said,  "  if  you 
hadn't  a  arsted  me,  that  he  'ung  on  like,  seein'  this  and  seein' 
that,  till  I  was  inside  of  the  house,  and  then  out  o'  the  front 
door.     And  I  don't  see  no  other  way  now." 

'•  Then  Pritchett  see  him.  go — him  as  rode  me  home." 

"  He  see  no  more  than  I  did.  He  was  in  here  till  I  got  you 
lyin'  down,  and  then  I  see  him  out  and  locked  the  gate." 

"•  Then  his  young  nipper  see  him !  " 

''  That's  as  might  be.  A  boy's  a  boy,  and  some  on  'em  takes 
notice.  Some  shets  their  eyes,  or  won't  tell.  You  can't  place 
no  reliance.'^ 

"  I  never  let  nothing  slip  by  me,  when  I  was  a  boy.     He  see^ 


26  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

him  fast  enough,  I  lay.  And  he'll  up  and  tell  if  he  don't  think 
I  want  to  know."  Which  showed  knowledge  of  human  nature. 
So  did  a  remark  which  followed : — "  In  course  the  old  party  he 
was  very  'appy  to  see  no  more  of  you,  for  to  save  his  pocket. 
You  may  go  bail  he  made  very  free  with  the  money  he'd  have 
giv'  if  you'd  'a  been  there  to  take  it.     Only  you  wasn't." 

The  old  woman,  as  soon  as  she  had  heard  and  understood, 
hastened  to  refute  the  accusation  of  illiberality.  "  Why — he'd 
giv'  me  a  shilling  in  hand  at  the  first  go  off,"  said  she. 

"  What — and  him  a  parson  !  To  run  to  a  shillin' !  But  there 
you  are,  ye  see.  In  course  he  wouldn't  stop,  only  to  say  good- 
€venin'! "  So  it  remained  provisionally  understood  that  the 
reverend  gentleman  had  slipped  out  somehow,  between  the  time 
when  Mr.  Grewbeer  was  assisted  into  the  house  and  the  departure 
of  Mr.  Pritchett's  coke-cart. 

This  theory  was  destined  to  be  disturbed  next  day,  when  Mrs. 
Grewbeer  was  in  conference  with  a  handy  young  man  who  at- 
tended to  small  jobs  in  the  way  of  repairs  to  the  houses  in  charge 
of  the  agency  which  had  appointed  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Grewbeer  to 
the  caretaking  of  The  Cedars,  years  since.  It  had  heeded  her 
complaint  of  the  ill-convenience  occasioned  by  the  loose  door- 
handle, and  her  representation  that  it  was  really  a  locksmith's 
job,  or  Grewbeer  could  have  made  shift  to  attend  to  it.  Mr. 
Grewbeer  had,  when  appointed,  claimed  universal  mechanical 
genius,  and  could  turn  his  'and  to  most  anything  you  might 
name.  But  evil-disposed  persons  had  thrown  doubts  on  Mr. 
Grewbeer's  attainments,  and  he  had  unfortunately  not  supplied 
his  friends  with  precedents  to  quote  in  his  favour,  having  made 
a  nice  'ash  of  more  than  one  undertaking;  ascribing  his  failure 
in  all  cases  to  a  lack  of  proper  tools.  Why,  he  couldn't — they 
said — so  much  as  'ack  out  a  broke  pane  of  winder-glass,  much 
less  shove  in  a  new  square  and  putty  up !  He  alleged  in  reply 
that,  if  so  be  the  agency  aforesaid  would  advance  him  the  price 
of  a  second-hand  diamond,  he  would  exhibit  a  rare  and  unparal- 
leled skill  in  the  glazier's  art.  But  the  agency  had  allowed 
itself  to  be  influenced  by  interested  advisers,  and  had  entrusted 
its  repairs,  when  nothing  out  of  the  way,  to  the  'andy  young  man 
just  referred  to.  Thus  it  came  about  that,  two  days  after  Mr. 
Grewbeer  had  got  that  upset  by  the  bad  beer  supplied  by 
Sowerby's  Entire  to  The  Three  Magpies,  this  young  man,  having 
took  a  shave  off  of  the  bottom  of  the  dining-room  door  so  it 
shouldn't  stick,  presented  himself  at  the  door  of  Mrs.  Grewbeer's 
apartment  and  asked  what  was  the  next  job.     Being  informed, 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  27 

he  said : — "  'Andle  ofE  the  front  door — is  that  it  ?  W^iere  shall 
I  find  the 'andle?" 

"  Where  it  belongs — only  stood  in  loose,  the  screw  bein'  lost 
down  a  crack  in  the  floorin'." 

"'Tain't  in  the  door!" 

"  Then  it's  fell  out  and  rolled  on  the  ground." 

"  'Tain't  done  no  such  thing.  I  ain't  blind.  The  floor's 
there,  missus.    You  can  see  for  3-ourself." 

The  old  woman  finished  peeling  a  potato,  or  rather,  converting 
it  into  an  irregular  polyhedron,  and  threw  away  with  the  skin  as 
much  as  she  kept.  Then  she  arose;  and,  brushing  her  apron, 
followed  the  handy  young  man  to  the  floor  that  had  not  run 
away.     His  statements  were  obviously  correct.     No  handle ! 

Then  she  looked  puzzled,  and  well  she  might.  For  she  had 
not  been  near  that  door — as  it  chanced — since  she  admitted  the 
Eev.  Dr.  Carteret,  two  days  since.  She  began  to  cogitate  over 
her  last  dealings  with  that  door.  Of  course — she  had  it,  clear 
as  daylight!  She  recalled  that,  when  she  closed  it,  she  had 
replaced  the  handle  on  its  window-seat,  but  had  left  the  door 
unbolted.  And  then  she  had  forgotten  all  about  it,  and  no 
wonder ! 

A  moment's  thought,  and  a  clearness  came  upon  her.  To  be 
sure! — that  was  how  the  visitor  had  departed,  through  the  door 
she  had  left  unbolted.  But — but — another  moment's  thought 
brought  a  new  puzzle.  He  could  not  open  the  door,  without 
the  handle  to  pull  back.  Then,  when  he  pulled  it  to  behind  him, 
it  was  bound  either  to  retain  the  handle,  or  jerk  it  out  on  the 
floor.  In  neither  case  would  it  have  got  back  to  its  place  on 
the  window-seat. 

She  explained  her  difficulty  to  the  handy  young  man.  Handy 
3'oung  men  do  not  lightly  admit  they  are  at  a  loss.  This  one 
said : — "  I  don't  take  much  accord  o'  that.  This  here  old  cock 
he's  a  careful  sort  of  beggar,  he  is — hold-maidish,  as  they  say. 
He  says,  says  he,  this  here  handle's  a  going  to  jump  out  when  I 
slams,  he  says.  So  he  just  opens  the  door  as  quiet  as  a  dormus, 
he  does,  and  he  outs  with  the  'andle  and  lays  it  on  the  shelf,  he 
does.     And  then  he  bangs  to  the  door  and  makes  his  lucky." 

The  intrinsic  improbability  of  this  defies  belief,  especially  as 
the  character  ascribed  to  Dr.  Carteret  quarrels  with  the  old 
woman's  experience  of  him.  But  she  does  not  see  a  way  To 
refuting  it  on  its  merits,  and  raises  a  new  issue.  "  'Tain't  any  so 
easy  to  slam  this  door  as  you  think,  young  man,"  says  she. 
''  Just  you  try  it !  " 


28  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

"  Easy  enough  if  you  ketch  hold  onto  the  knob  outside.  .  .  . 
Oh,  there  ain't  no  knob !  Well — the  old  party  ketched  hold  on 
the  letter-box." 

"  Just  you  ketch  hold  on  the  letter-box,  and  try."  The  young 
man  complies,  and  once,  twice,  three  times,  bangs  to  the  door, 
shaking  the  house.  That  is  enough.  The  hasp  is  set  so  that  it 
overshoots  the  striking-plate — you  know  how  that  happens  in  a 
door? — and  it  will  not  go  home  of  itself.  The  problem  is  more 
insoluble  than  ever. 

The  old  man,  in  the  further  part  of  the  desolate  mansion, 
heard  the  concussions,  and  appeared  on  the  scene  in  the  course 
of  time ;  not  over  quickly,  because  the  handy  young  man  had 
made  good  the  defective  handle — a  short  job — and  was  prepar- 
ing to  depart.  The  old  woman's  wits  were  still  at  work  on  the 
unsolved  problem.  How  did  the  reverend  visitor  of  two  days 
since  contrive  his  departure?  She  told  her  husband  the  incident 
of.  the  door-handle,  and  explained  the  noises.  Old  Grewboer 
affected  sagacity,  expressed  contempt  for  all  judgment  but  his 
own,  especially  his  wife's,  and  certainly  started  a  new  hare. 
''  Wliere  did  you  see  him  last,  did  you  say — hay  ?  "  he  shouted 
to  his  wife.  She  replied  as  before — that  the  visitor  was  standing 
at  the  entry  of  the  long  passage  with  the  glass  door  at  the  end. 
"  Very  well,  then !  "  said  her  husband.  "  There's  where  he  got 
out.  'Cos  why?  'Cos  he  didn't  get  out  anywheres  else.  You 
can't  get  over  that,  try  your  'ardest!  "  Mr.  Grewbeer  was  not 
the  first  person  in  the  world  to  advance  a  variation  of  a  state- 
ment as  a  reason  for  its  truth. 

•"  What — through  all  them  empty  flowerpots!  Gone  silly  you 
are,  Grewbeer,  that's  the  truth.  And  how  was  he  to  get  through 
that  door  without  opening  of  it?  " 

"  It's  only  glarst."     This  is  too  feeble  to  be  worth  an  answer. 

The  young  man  contributes  a  remark,  showing  zoological 
study.  "  Glass  doors  keeps  elephants  out,  where  they  ain't 
allowed  to  break  'em."  He  prepares  to  go,  but  has  a  parting 
word  of  advice.  "  I  should  make  a  p'int  of  keeping  my  doors 
locked  and  bolted,  if  1  was  you.  But  of  course  I  ain't,  if  you 
come  to  that."  He  departs  through  the  door  he  has  been  at 
work  upon,  closing  it  gently  from  without,  to  show  how  it  has 
benefited  by  his  attention. 

The  old  couple,  instead  of  making  for  their  own  quarter,  go 
away  in  the  opposite  direction,  apparently  by  tacit  consent.  On 
the  way,  the  old  woman  says : — ""  It's  no  use  your  goin'.  I  tell 
you  it's  locked."     Her  husband  pays  no  attention,  but  stumps 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  29 

on  till  he  comes  to  the  long  passage,  and  so  to  the  kaleidoscopic 
doorway.  He  open?  it  easily,  and  turns  to  his  partner  trium- 
phantly. "  Now,  what  did..  1  tell  ye  ?  "  says  he.  "  Who's  the 
fool  now?  "  But  his  triumph  is  short-lived,  for  further  explora- 
tion shows  that  the  door  of  the  greenhouse  outside  is  so  locked 
and  bolted  and  the  fastenings  so  immovable,  that  even  in  coun- 
tries where  elephants  are  given  carte-hlanche,  a  lazy  one  might 
have  been  discouraged  from  an  attempt  to  open  it. 

Nevertheless,  the  old  man  considered  that  he  had  scored.  He 
appeared  to  have  taken  up  an  attitude  which  a  cultivated  mind 
might  have  described  thus,  if  not  interrupted  by  the  lower  orders. 
Let  X  be  the  probability  that  a  clerical  gentleman  can  get 
through  a  conservatory,  Y  the  number  of  its  doors  that  are 
closed,  and  Z  the  number  open.  Then  when  Z  =  0,  X  also  =  0. 
But  when  Y  ^=^  Z ,  clearly  X  is  an  even  chance.  The  attitude 
was  fallacious,  as  a  single  elephant-proof  door  remains  a  fixed 
integral.  Mr.  Grewbeer,  however,  hugged  his  opinion.  Having 
imagined  the  passage  of  a  kind  of  Bishop,  in  an  apron,  passing 
through  the  one  door,  he  conceived  that  he  had  a  sound  ground 
on  which  to  ignore  the  impossibility  of  the  other.  So  it  was 
with  confidence  that  he  approached  the  youthful  son  of  the 
coke-merchant  Pritchett,  when  a  day  or  two  later  that  advocate 
of  sobriety  looked  in  again  at  The  Three  Magpies,  and  abstained 
from  the  whole  of  its  stock-in-trade  except  a  quart  of  four-ale, 
minus  the  fraction  he  conceded  to  his  offspring,  who  may,  or 
may  not,  have  been  christened  Toadstool  Pritchett. 

"  I  never  see  no  helderly  buffer,"  said  Toadstool,  in  response  to 
an  enquiry  from  Mr.  Grewbeer,  which  took  the  subject  for 
granted,  and  sought  to  knoAV  whether  that  subject  had  departed 
up  the  road,  down  the  road,  or  acrost  the  building  land  towards 
the  rope-works.  For  the  questioner  had  deemed  it  more  subtle 
to  take  this  line  of  examination,  as  leaving  less  latitude  to  the 
capricious  inventiveness  of  boyhood.  This  boy  seemed  truthful. 
'•'  And  what's  more  there  warn't  none,"  said  he.  '''  I'd  seen  hira 
if  he'd  been  there,  fast  enough !  " 

"  Who  did  you  see,  then?     Don't  you  inwent!  " 

"  I  ain't  inwentin'.  I  see  a  blind  chap,  feeling  of  his  way 
along  with  a  stick.  And  he  got  in  the  mud  and  they  got  him 
out  and  started  him  on  again,  down  the  road.  He'd  got  a  dorg 
— wanted  for  to  bite  some  of  'em  for  gettin'  of  him  out.  You 
don't  mean  him?  " 

"  In  course  not.  If  I'd  a  meant  a  dorg,  I'd  have  said  a  dorg. 
Wlio  else  did  you  see  ?  "  a 


30  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

"'  I  see  a  young  lady  a  walkin'  out  with  a  wolunteer.  And 
he  advised  her  to  keep  her  hair  on,  he  did.  About  a  gurl  by 
the  name  of  Hemmer,  he  did.  Y^u  don't  mean  neither  of 
them?" 

"  Nouther  the  one  nor  yet  the  other.  And  not  likely.  They 
warn't  gentlefolk.  This  here  old  cock  was  " — he  paused  for  a 
phrase — "  middlin'  parlour-company,  you  might  say.  Soap  afore 
dinner — that  sort.  And  a  clean  pocket-'ankercher,  as  often 
as  not.'*' 

The  last  particular  seemed  to  locate  the  quarrelsome  couple 
socially,  in  the  boy's  mind.  "  They  wasn't  that  sort,"  said  he. 
"  And  as  for  the  dorg's  blind  man,  he  was  just  a  cadger.  No 
— I  see  nobody  else.     Only  them." 

"  "WTiat — see  nobody  come  out  at  our  gate !  Then  you  wasn't 
looking." 

"  I  was.  I  never  took  my  eyes  off  of  that  gate,  all  the  time. 
Nor  yet  off  of  the  'ouse  gate,  'igher  up.  Nor  yet  off  of  any  of 
the  doors  or  winders  or  chiraley  pots.  And  if  anylpod3''d  a 
come  out  of  ere  a  one  of  'em,  I'd  have  took  stock  of  'im.  /  never 
see  nobody." 

Mr.  Grewbeer  nodded  shortly  at  intervals,  as  though  to  put 
on  record  his  incredulity  of  each  separate  statement  as  it  came. 
Presently  he  addressed  the  boy's  father,  offering  him,  as  it  were, 
the  sound  advice  of  age  and  experience,  not  to  say  of  a  family 
friend. 

"  You  larn  your  young  customer  here,  while  he's  young 
enough,  for  to  speak  truth  and  put  the  Devil's  nose  out  of 
j'int." 

"'What  lies  has  he  been  a  parmin'  off  on  3-ou,  neighbour? 
You  come  out,  young  Toadstools,  and  say  'em  all  over  again, 
for  me  to  know  how  much  licking  you  want." 

Young  Toadstools  flashes  out.  "  I  arn't  been  a  telling  of  him 
any  lies,"  says  he.  And  his  manner  is  that  of  maligned  honour 
refuting  slander.  An  episode  of  repetitions  follows,  in  which 
he  stands  to  his  tale,  while  old  Grewbeer  remains  doggedly  in- 
credulous, supporting  himself  by  a  priori  reasoning.  "  That  old 
party,"  he  says,  "  must  have  come  out  somewheres,  and  there 
warn't  anywheres  else  except  he  flew  off  out  o'  window,  like  a  old 
blackbird."  This  omits  an  ill-chosen  epithet,  applied  to  the 
blackbird. 

"  You  come  out,  young  Toadstools,"  says  the  father,  as  before, 
"  and  stand  in  front  of  me  with  your  'ands  behind  your  back. 
.    .    .   Now  look  me  in  the  heye !  "     The  boy  complies,  promptly 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  31 

enough.  "  Now  then !  Who  come  out  o'  that  there  front 
garden  between  when  I  went  in  and  when  I  come  out  ?  " 

"  Nobody  come  out  till  you  come  out,  or  I'd  'a  seen  'em." 

"  And  no  lies?  " 

"  No— just  like  I  tell  you  !  " 

The  father  turns  to  the  old  man,  who  seems  to  be  on  the 
point  of  repeating  his  doubts.  "  You  give  attention,  neighbour, 
and  hear  me  telling  of  you.  My  boy  he  says  he  saw  no  one, 
looking  me  fair  and  square  in  the  heye.  And  I  say  he's  spoke 
the  truth.  So  any  party  as  says  he  hasn't,  calls  me  liar.  Now 
what  'a  you  got  to  say  to  that  ?  " 

Mr.  Grewbeer  seemed  disconcerted.  "  Well,  master!  " — he 
said  at  last — "  in  course  after  sich  a  good  turn  as  you  done  me 
Thursday  afternoon,  I'm  bound  to  believe  3'our  son,  and  I  do  so 
accordin'.  I  can't  say  fairer  than  that.  And  whatever  you  like 
to  put  a  name  to,  I'll  stand." 

But  Mr.  Pritchett's  quart,  backed  by  his  principles,  stood  in 
the  way  of  his  putting  a  name  to  anything.  Possibly  his  dis- 
position towards  a  loving  cup  with  old  Grewbeer  was  small ;  or 
he  might  have  felt  that  the  latter's  views  of  the  plasticity  of 
belief — though  at  one  with  the  religious  world's — would  not  bear 
examination.  Anyhow,  he  excused  himself  and  went  his  way, 
leaving  the  old  man  in  a  perfectly  genuine  state  of  bewilderment. 
For  his  undertaking  to  "  believe  "  what  he  had  been  convinced 
was  false  was  made  with  a  misgiving  that  perhaps  that  convic- 
tion was  itself  unsound. 


CHAPTER  IV 

Fred  lost  no  time  in  propounding  The  Scheme  to  his  friend 
Mr.  Snaith,  who  at  first  only  saw  lions  in  the  path.  In  the  end 
he  admitted  its  fascinating  character;  saw  that  objections — 
obvious  enough — to  a  common  household  might  be  met  by  divid- 
ing the  house  into  two  domiciles,  without  so  much  as  a  door 
between.  Hostilities  are  impossible  through  a  nine-inch  parti- 
tion wall.  He  conceded,  with  some  reluctance,  that  it  would  be 
practicable  to  form  a  company  to  take  over  a  square  mile  or  so 
of  the  neighbourhood  and  erect  thereon  a  few  luxurious  resi- 
dences, to  be  held  at  a  rent  high  enough  to  justify  the  allotment 
of  four-fifths  of  it  as  parks  and  gardens.  He  saw  no  objection 
to  the  place  having  been  in  use  as  a  madhouse..  If  you  insisted 
on  a  sanehouse  you  condemned  yourself  to  dwell  always  in  a 
house  that  had  not  been  previously  occupied.  Was  Fred  going 
to  maintain  that  any  house  he  himself  had  occupied  for  six 
months  could  rank  as  sane?  At  least  in  this  house  the  patients 
had  been  under  treatment,  whereas  in  ordinary  residences  they 
were  all  at  large.  \\Tiat  was  Fred  engaged  upon  at  that  mo- 
ment? Drawing  details  of  an  engine  that  was  to  work  without 
vibration ! 

But  there  was  one  objection  that  seemed  to  him  fatal — the 
distance  from  town.  Distance  was  unchangeable.  Xothing 
could  make  it  shorter  or  longer.  He  was  well  aware  that  we 
have  not  a  particle  of  evidence  either  that  visible  creation 
always  remains  the  same  size,  or  varies  continually — multiplies 
itself  by  N  for  that  matter — every  three  seconds  or  so.  There 
was  any  amount  of  elbow-room  in  space,  and  for  all  he  could 
see  the  Universe  could  go  on  at  that  game  indefinitely.  But 
a  mile  v/ould  always  be  so  many  yards,  and  if  one  yard-measure 
took  to  multiplying  itself  by  N,  every  other  yard-measure  would 
do  so  likewise,  and  every  healthy  cube  would  remain  as  broad 
as  it  is  long.  The  distance  between  human  wickets  would 
always  be  exactly  so  many  circumferences  of  a  cricket-ball. 
Similarly,  it  would  always  be  the  same  journey  from  The  Cedars 
to  Wimbledon,  from  Wimbledon  to  Waterloo,  and  from  Waterloo 
to  Lincoln's  Inn  Fields.  He  could  not  put  it  at  less  than  an 
hour-  and  a-  quarter,  try  as  he  might. 

33 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  33 

But  Fred  had  recent  experience,  to  show  against  this  estimate. 
He  had  made  a  trial  trip  to  the  house  the  day  before,  and  had 
timed  everything.  "  Nothing  is  more  misleading  than  Time, 
Charley,"  said  he.  "  I  assure  you,  I  walked  from  the  house  to 
Wimbledon  in  eighteen  minutes  quite  easily,  got  to  Waterloo  in 
another  fifteen,  and  was  back  here  in  time  to  dress  for  dinner 
by  six-thirty.  As  it  was  a  trial  trip  to  see  how  long  it  took,  it 
wouldn't  have  been  fair  to  hurry.  So  I  took  it  easy,  and  that's 
what  it  worked  out  at — forty-eight  minutes  all  told !  If  I  had 
taken  a  hansom  at  this  end,  it  would  have  been  thirty-eight. 
Simply  nothing !  " 

"  A  bagatelle !  "  said  the  young  man  addressed,  who  was  en- 
joying a  small  morning  cigar  in  the  rooms  of  his  friend  Fred 
Carteret,  overhead.  It  was  the  third  day  after  the  Sunday 
lunch,  and  Fred  had  been  taken  the  evening  before  to  be  pre- 
sented to  the  Miss  liinchliffe  to  whom  his  friend  Charley  Snaitli 
was  affianced.  The  visit  had  been  a  great  success,  and  every- 
one had  found  everyone  else  charming. 

"  Well,  but  it  is  a  bagatelle,"  said  Frederic  rather  impatiently, 
as  though  he  doubted  his  friend's  bona-fides.  "  Wliat  makes  vou 
think  it  isn't?" 

"  I  didn't  say  it  wasn't.     I  said  it  was." 

"  Yes,  but  you  didn't  mean  it.  You're  a  scoffer,  Charles ; 
that's  what  vou  are.  I  hate  chaps  that  are  not  in  earnest.  .  .  . 
Yes,  but  really,  old  chap,  thirty-eight  minutes  is  an  awfully 
short  time — you  know  it  is !  " 

"  Dcosid  short  time  in  itself.  Good  job  it  isn't  thirty-five 
minutes  shorter — for  it !  " 

"  It's  no  use  trying  to  make  you  serious,  so  I  shan't  talk  about 
it.  ..."  He  changed  the  topic.  "  I  say — look  here  !  Ought 
I  to  call  your  young  woman  Lucy  ?  " 

"  Very  rum  circumstance !  She  wants  to  know  whether  she 
ought  to  call  you  Fred." 

'^  What  did' you  say?" 

"  Said  she  ought  to.     Said  you  expected  it." 

"  She  didn't  begin.    She  '  ^Ir.  Cartereted  '  me,  all  the  evening." 

"  She  couldn't  begin,  bang  off!  " 

"  Well — I  can't  begin  '  Lucying '  her,  bang  off  !  " 

"  It's  a  devil  of  a  fix.  You'll  have  to  settle  it  between  you, 
somehow !  " 

"  But  how  am  1  to  '  Lucy  '  her,  till  she  '  Freds  '  me  ?  " 

"  Very  rum  again !  That's  just  what  she  said.  How  is  she 
to  begin  '  Fredding  '  you  till  you've  '  Lucied  '  her?  " 


34  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

Frederic  seemed  absorbed  in  thought,  but  not  upon  the 
machine  he  was  drawing.  Presently  his  thoughts  took  form, 
and  he  said :— ''It's  all  very  fine,  Charley,  but  I  do  not  see  why 
you  are  to  call  Cinty  Miss  Cintra  and  I'm  to  call  your  girl 

Lucy." 

"  Because  Elbows  comes  in." 

"  Nobody  wants  you  to  call  her  '  Elbows.'  " 

"  Of  course  not.  That's  in  camera.  But  if  I  '  Cinty '  Miss 
Cintra  it  would  sound  rum  to  '  Miss  Eraser '  Elbows." 

"  Well— call  her  Nancy." 

"My  wig!  Shouldn't  I  catch  it  hot!  Why,  she  wouldn't 
call  me  '  Charley,'  if  the  Devil  was  behind  her  with  a  bradawl." 

"  Anyhow,  you've  got  to  work  it  out  somehow.  Unless  you 
'  Cinty  '  my  Cinty,  I  can't  '  Lucy  '  your  Lucy.    Twig?  " 

The  young  lawyer  rubbed  the  nose  that  had  been  discussed 
and  condemned  at  Mrs.  Carteret's,  and  shook  the  head  it  adorned, 
to  express  perplexity;  but  seemed  to  see  a  way  out  of  the  diffi- 
culty. "  My  young  gal,"  he  said,  "  will  have  to  begin  '  Fredding  ' 
you,  on  her  own  hook,  and  that'll  square  it."  He  then  smoked 
peacefully,  while  Fred  became  absorbed  in  his  drawing. 

An  engineering  problem  was  evidently  vexing  the  draughts- 
man. He  erased  something  petulantly,  saying : — "  No — that 
would  never  do !  " 

"  What's  the  rumpus  ?  "  said  Mr.  Charley,  unfeelingly. 

"Only  a  beastly  mechanical  fact.  You  see,  I've  got  the  cyl- 
inder all  right,  with  the  pistons  working  in  opposite  directions, 
and  I  fancy  the  condenser's  all  right   ..." 

''  Well,  what  more  do  you  want  ?  " 

"  I  want  the  two  pistons  to  work  exactly  alike,  only  opposite 
ways,  as  if  one  was  the  other  in  a  looking-glass." 

"  Why  shouldn't  they?     Let  'em  !  " 

''Why  shouldn't  they,  indeed?  Why— see  what  happens! 
One  turns  the  main  driving-pulley  one  way,  t'other  t'other. 
Then  they  stick." 

"  Well — then  vou  stoke  up,  till  they  go." 

"  They  don't  go." 

"  Then  what  happens?     Something  happens." 

"  You  generate  steam.  Boiler  bursts,  if  you  don't  take  care. 
Shut  up  while  I  think."  Mr.  Snaith  complies,  and  presently 
Fred  resumes,  as  one  who  states  a  case  clearly.  "  Three  courses 
are  open  to  me :  one,  a  cross-strap,  and  I  hate  a  cross-strap. 
Another,  an  idler.  .  .  .  Let's  see  now !  How  would  an  idler 
work?     Suppose  I  employ  an  idler?" 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  35 

"  If  he  won't  work,  give  him  the  cross-strap.  That'll  make 
him  work,  if  anything  will." 

"  Nothing  will  make  you  serious,  Charley,  so  I  shan't  try. 
But  I  must  say  I  am  surprised  that  you  do  not  see  the  enormous 
importance  of  the  points  at  issue.  Just  consider — no  vibra- 
tion !  " 

"  Well — nothin'  would  ever  set  one's  teeth  on  edge.  I  see 
that." 

"  It's  more  than  that,  Charles.  Just  consider  it  this  way 
now.  I  only  put  a  hypothetical  case.  Suppose  you  could  gen- 
erate a  thousand  horse-power  in  a  room  with  a  thin  partition, 
and  not  wake  up  anyone  in  the  next  room !  " 

"  I  shouldn't  do  it." 

"But  why  not?" 

"  I  should  be  afraid  of  getting  in  a  row." 

Fred  despaired  visibly  of  his  friend's  intelligence.  "By 
hypothesis,"  said  he,  kindly  but  firmly,  "  there  would  be  no 
vibration.  ^A^ly,  then,  hesitate  to  generate  a  thousand  horse- 
power  .    .    .  ?  " 

Mr.  Charles  interrupted  him.  "  It  would  be  upstairs,"  said 
he,  irrelevantly.  "  I  shouldn't  want  to.  But  of  course  some 
feller  might  go  to  sleep  downstairs,  on  a  sofa." 

Fred  made  concession.  "  Suppose  we  make  it  downstairs,  and 
a  sofa.  If  I  am  right,  a  duplex  engine  of  the  construction  I 
propose  would  develop  no  vibration,  whatever  the  number  of 
horse-power.  Each  motor  would  be  the  exact  counterpart  of 
the  other,  only  t'other  way  round.  .  .  . "  He  went  on  for  some 
time  with  this  sort  of  thing,  as  he  was  in  the  habit  of  doing 
with  one  remarkable  invention  after  another,  but  received  no 
attention  from  his  legal  friend,  who  appeared  to  regard  his  case 
as  one  of  harmless  monomania.  Xo  doubt  if  Fred  had  ever 
concentrated,  the  world  would  have  been  the  richer  by  one  or 
other  of  his  brilliant  discoveries. 

The  disquisition  on  the  Xew  Duplex  Non-Vibrator  had  to 
stop  when  Mr.  Snaith  threw  the  end  of  his  cigar  in  the  fire 
and  said  now  he  must  be  off.  There  was,  however,  still  an  un- 
settled point  to  pause  over  before  he  took  his  departure.  "  We 
haven't  settled,"  said  he,  "  what  day  we  are  to  go  to  The  Cedars." 

"  Why,  no — we  haven't.  You  see,  I'm  all  in  favour  of  getting 
the  whole  scheme  in  black  and  white  before  taking  it  to  my 
uncle.  I  can't  act  without  him;  because,  you  see,  he's  my 
guardian  and  trustee  and  all  that  sort  of  thing — has  control  of 
the  purse-strings,  don't  you  know !     We  haven't  heard  from  him, 


36  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

but  we  know  he  went  to  see  over  the  house — last  Saturday 
week." 

"  Hasn't  he  written  to  say  what  lie  thought  of  it?" 

"  No — he  hasn't.  But  there's  nothing  strange  about  that. 
He's — he's —  Well ! — he's  Uncle  Drury.  That's  all  one  can  say. 
My  mother  agrees  with  nie  that  it's  better  to  leave  him  alone 
and  have  patience.     You'll  see  he'll  write  in  a  day  or  two." 

"  And  squash  the  scheme  ?  " 

'•  Probably.  He'll  say  the  house  is  too  big.  Of  course  it  is 
too  big — for  us  alone.  But  then  of  course  we  must  write  and 
say  how  true  that  is,  and  how  we  feel  we  must  defer  to  his 
better  judgment,  and  give  up  the  idea.  With  tears,  of 
course ! " 

'•  1  see  the  dodge.      And  then   ..." 

"  And  then  of  course  we  spring  the  joint-stock  scheme  upon 
him." 

"  \Miat  an  artful  card  you  are,  Frederic !  .  .  .  I  say — I 
must  bo  off.  There's  a  chap  coming  to  the  office  to  see  me  at 
eleven-thirty.     Ta  ta  !  " 

Cintra  had  come  to  stay  with  Mrs.  Carteret  for  a  few  days,  so 
Fred  passed  his  evenings  at  his  mother's,  or  took  the  two  ladies 
out  into  Society,  or  to  see  or  hear  a  performer.  The  little  dachs- 
hund was  under  the  impression  that  Miss  Fraser  had  come  to 
stay  with  him,  and  seemed  sometimes  doubtful  whether  he  ought 
to  sanction  tlie  visit;  smelling  the  young  lady  stispiciously,  and 
sometimes  barking  suddenly,  as  if  he  had  seen  through  some 
conspiracy,  and  wasn't  going  to  stand  it.  He  accepted  flattery 
as  his  due,  although  now  and  then  bystanders  would  remonstrate 
with  the  extravagant  forms  it  took  in  the  mouths  of  his  female 
admirers.  One  of  these  ascribed  to  him  omniscience,  combined 
with  a  rare  modesty,  hesitating  to  seek  publicity  for  sound 
opinions  based  upon  it. 

"  Did  he  think  his  Uncle  Drury  would  write  in  a  day  or  two, 
and  say  the  house  was  a  bargain  and  could  always  be  disposed 
of,  so  that  it  would  always  be  a  sound  investment?  And  had 
he  no  jiatience  with  his  papa  for  fidgeting?"  Cintra  spoke,  the 
same  evening,  after  a  light  early  dinner,  which  would  allow  the 
three  of  them  to  get  to  the  Princess's  in  time  for  the  chief  piece, 
although  of  course  it  was  a  pity  not  to  see  the  little  Japanese 
thing  that  came  first. 

"  Um  not  fidgeting,"  said  Fred.  "  Only  you  know  it  loill  be 
/xasperating  if  some  idiotic  Institution  cuts  in  and  gets  the  place 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  37 

under  our  very  eyes.     And  all  because  of  Uncle  Drury  and  his 
love  of  power.      That's  what  it  is — his  love  of  power." 

"  Fred !  "  This  is  remonstrance^  or  arrest  of  misjudgment, 
from  the  young  man's  mother. 

"What,  ]yiother!  .  .  .  Oh— I  know!  Uncle  Dru  has  all 
the  Christian  virtues,  and  a  few  thrown  in.  But  nobody  can  say 
he  isn't  fond  of  power." 

"  I  am  not  going  to  say  so.  I  am  not  going  to  say  anything. 
Isn't  it  time  for  her  to  go  for  the  cab?  Look  at  your  watch. 
The  clock's  slow.  .  .  .  Yes — we  haven't  too  much  time."  She 
is  leaving  the  room  for  finishing  touches,  in  Cintra's  wake,  as 
that  young  lady  has  vanished  upstairs,  when  she  repents  of  her 
Spartan  resolve  to  abstain  from  speech,  and  turns  at  the  door 
to  say : — "  You  know  you  would  be  very  sorry  to  hear  that  your 
uncle  was  ill." 

"  But  he  isn't  ill." 

"  Not  that  I  know  of.  But  suppose  he  were — and  you  know 
it  is  a  little  odd,  his  not  writing — you  know  you  would  be  sorry 
you  had  said  that  about  him.  Because  you  are  good-hearted 
underneath,  although  you  talk  great  nonsense  sometimes.  Now 
1  must  go,  child,  or  the  cab  will  be  here." 

The  son  is  beginning: — "But  you  don't  think  .  .  .,"  some- 
what uneasily,  when  the  sound  of  a  four-wheeler  arriving  at  the 
front  gate  hastens  his  mother's  departure.  She  responds,  how- 
ever, to  a  mi?^giving  or  alarm  in  his  voice  by  an  ill-considered  tone 
of  reassurance,  probably  the  surest  means  of  creating  the  anxiety 
it  is  intended  to  allay.  Oh  dear  no! — she  has  not  the  slightest 
reason  for  suj)posing  his  uncle  to  be  in  other  than  perfect 
health.  Has  he  ever  been  otherwise?  Is  not  his  robustness 
a  sort  of  fundamental  principle  of  Nature?  Don't  be  a  ridicu- 
lous boy  and  fuss ! 

Cintra  appears,  resplendent  from  the  finishing  touches,  and» 
is  critical  about  his  handling  of  her  overmantle.  Will  he  never 
learn  to  make  himself  of  use?  He  is  enslaved,  but  puts  none 
of  his  slavery  down  to  the  finishing  touches.  Was  ever  lover 
shrewd  enough  to  draw  the  natural  inferences  when  Love's  lamp 
burns  the  brighter  for  a  superadded  gewgaw,  or  dwindles  at 
sight  of  a  misfit?  Those  finishing  touches  make  the  youth  very 
loverlike;  and  as  there  is  no  fear  of  Lipseombe,  who  is  helping 
her  mistress  towards  completion  upstairs,  the  pair  have  the  stage 
to  themselves  and  take  advantage  of  it  until  "Mrs.  Carteret  ap- 
pears, temperately  dazzling — but  dazzling!  Then  they  hurry 
into  the  cab  and  are  off.     The  little  daehshund  has  to  be  dis- 


38  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

abused  of  an  idea  that  his  family  have  been  dressing  to  take 
him  to  the  play,  and  cannot  help  thinking  there  is  some  mistake. 

Fred  did  not  accompany  his  mother  and  fiancee  back  to  Maida 
Vale,  but  went  to  his  chambers.  There  was  no  reason  why  he 
should  not  live  at  home,  and  go  to  town  every  day,  except  that 
chambers  convince  their  occupant  of  his  importance,  and  make 
him  feel  professional.  It  had  seemed  conceivable  that  concen- 
tration might  ensue,  as  their  result.  But  this  expectation  had 
been  doomed  to  disappointment  from  the  beginning,  and  Fred 
became  more  diffuse  than  ever.  His  chambers  became  as  it  were 
the  vortex  of  a  whirlpool  of  inattention  to  objectives,  and  pur- 
poses gone  astray,  with  a  helpless  victim  in  the  centre  under  the 
delusion  that  he  was  stability  itself,  and  needed  only  to  stretch 
out  his  hand  to  recover  any  one  of  them. 

The  victim,  as  he  walked  from  the  Princess's  after  packing  off 
the  two  ladies  in  a  hansom,  pictured  himself  to  himself  as  the 
most  fortunate  of  Consulting  Engineers,  in  spite  of  the  fact  that 
nobody  to  speak  of  had  consulted  him  up  to  date;  the  most 
ingenious  inventor,  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  no  one  of  his  thou- 
sand schemes  had  taken  concrete  form ;  and  incidentally,  by  way 
of  a  side-compliment  to  Cintra,  as  one  of  the  happiest  of  men. 
It  wouldn't  do  to  leave  her  out.  How  much  more  fortunate  he 
had  been  in  his  choice  than  Charley,  whose  love  had  the  mis- 
fortune to  be  a  dark  beauty.  He  admitted  the  beauty,  but  took 
exception  to  her  complexion.  He  and  Charley  had  been  quite 
unanimous  in  praise  of  blondes,  up  to  date. 

The  streets  were  settling  down  to  silence  and  would  soon  enjoy 
it,  disturbed  only  by  stray  gusts  of  valediction  from  host  to 
friend  departing  into  the  night,  or  the  heartfelt  cries  of  the 
"latter  to  the  first  hansom  seen  on  the  horizon,  which  might  be 
the  last.  The  bells  of  St.  Clement  Danes  may  have  said  oranges 
and  lemons  earlier  in  the  dav,  but  their  meaning  on  the  last 
stroke  of  twelve  was  plainly — "  Go  to  bed !  "  Fancy  may  have 
imagined  in  their  tone  a  satisfaction  that  till  two  o'clock  they 
had  only  to  strike  one,  but  the  prosaic  mind — Fred's  in  this  case 
— only  looked  at  its  watch  and  found  it  slow.  He  was  thinking 
of  the  Duplex  Non-Vibrating  Engine,  and  how  he  could  just 
insert  a  trifling  modification  he  had  thought  of  and  yet  get  to 
bed  by  one. 

He  had  not  yet  arrived  at  that  happy  stage  in  the  life  of  a 
letter-recipient  when  nothing  surprises,  because  of  the  risk  of 
throwing  good  surprise  away  on  what  might  prove  an  advertise- 
ment.    There  are  some  among  us  so  hardened  by  the  constant 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  39 

plethora  of  our  letter-boxes  that  a  glance  at  the  direction  is 
all  a  letter  gets,  even  though  it  is  visibly  a  warning  from  a  secret 
band  of  assassins,  with  a  skull  and  crossbones,  and  Beware ! — 
written  large  on  the  cover  in  a  big  round  hand,  the  handwriting 
of  a  professional  homicide.  But  Fred  was  still  such  a  novice 
that  he  felt  quite  curious  to  know  what  the  messenger-boy  had 
come  for,  of  whom  the  gatekeeper  reported  as  an  enquirer  for 
Mr.  Frederic  Carteret's  chambers,  not  long  before  the  arrival  of 
their  occupant.  '*  I  shouldn't  wonder  if  you  came  across  him," 
said  the  gatekeeper,  "  considering  that  I  saw  him  come  in,  and 
never  saw  him  go  out.  He  hasn't  flew  away  over  the  roofs,  I'll 
pound  it."  He  had  not,  and  Fred  found  him  on  the  lowest  step 
of  the  stair  that  led  up  to  his  chambers  on  the  third  floor  and 
Mr.  Snaith's  on  the  second. 

"  You've  got  something  for  me — letter  or  parcel  ?  "  said  he. 

The  boy  seemed  to  be  a  boy  of  strong  character.  "  Easy  does 
it,"  said  he.  "  'Urry  don't.  I've  got  a  letter  for  Frederic 
Carteret,  Esquire.     P'raps  you  ain't  him.      Who's  to  know  ?  " 

As  chances  to  more  folk  than  not,  Fred,  though  well  on  in 
his  twenties,  never  happened  to  have  been  called  on  for  proof 
of  his  identity.  He  felt  for  the  first  time  how  helpless  the 
position  would  make  him,  if  he  were  thrown  fairly  on  his  own 
resources,  like  the  little  woman  who  was  so  maltreated  by  a 
pedlar  named  Stout.  However,  as  he  knew  he  could  refer  to  the 
gatekeeper — besides,  was  there  not  Snaith? — he  felt  it  safe  to 
treat  the  question  as  an  open  one. 

"  Perhaps  I'm  not  him,"  said  he.  "  I  have  nothing  but  my 
own  personal  convictions  to  go  upon,  and  it's  a  subject  in  which 
one  isn't  free  from  prejudice.  \\'liat's  to  be  done?  Suppose  we 
refer  to  the  official  who  let  you  through?  Official  testimony  is 
always  trustworthy." 

The  boy  rejected  it,  for  all  that.  "  I'd  as  soon  trust  your  word 
as  his,"  said  he.  "  ^y^j — he  hasn't  got  a  sound  tooth  in  his 
head !  "  This  showed  that  he  was  an  observant  boy,  although 
he  was  evidently  ill-read  on  the  Foundations  of  Belief.  He  went 
on  to  propose  a  condition.  "  Look  here.  Governor,"  said  he. 
"  If  your  latchkey  fits  the  'ole  and  lets  you  in,  I'll  'and  you  this 
'ere  letter  and  take  my  chance.  We've  no  call  to  bust  our  bilers 
over  it."  His  governor  replied : — "  Suppose  we  don't !  Come 
along !  "  and  led  the  way  upstairs.  The  Yale  lock  acknowledged 
his  touch,  as  an  intimate  friend's,  and  the  boy  having  conceded 
the  letter  departed,  whistling  louder  than  the  circumstances 
appeared  to  warrant. 


40  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

Fred  watched  the  exit  of  the  whistler,  not  altogether  sure  he 
ouglit  not  to  shout  a  remonstrance  after  him,  and  then  returned 
to  examine  the  letter,  which  had  puzzled  him,  as  he  saw  on  it 
the  image  and  superscription  of  Shortage's  Private  Hotel,  the 
pied-a-terre  of  his  Uncle  Drury  when  in  town.  He  knew  that 
his  uncle  had  left  London  for  Yexton  Stultifer  nearly  a  fort- 
night since,  and  why  he  should  have  come  back  again  without 
communicating  his  movements  to  Maida  Yale  was  more  than  his 
nephew  could  imagine.  But  then  the  letter  was  not  directed  by 
his  uncle. 

While  he  is  opening  the  letter,  and  pooh-poohing  a  misgiving 
that  something  has  gone  wrong,  let  the  story  note  the  reverend 
gentleman's  arrangement  with  Shortage's  Hotel,  which  was 
special  and  ]ieculiar,  based  upon  the  fact  that  his  patronage  was 
a  valuable  asset  to  Shortage,  who  had  said  of  him : — "■  The 
reverend  and  learned  Doctor's  weight  and  respectability  would 
nootralise  a  'undred  'ooligans  in  any  establishment,  apart  from 
the  Management's  wish  to  be  accommodatin'  witliout  fear  or 
favour."  Therefore  Dr.  Carteret's  terms  were  kep'  down  to 
what  you  might  call  zero,  and  a  bedroom  practically  reserved  for 
him  which  took  his  fancy,  in  view  of  the  spacious  houtlook, 
because  you  see  right  acrost  the  Square.  In  his  bedroom  was  a 
cupboard,  believed  by  other  guests  of  the  hotel  to  contain  its 
skeleton,  but  really  only  a  deposit  for  duplicates  of  Mr.  Carteret's 
wardrobe,  to  free  him  from  the  necessity  of  carrving  luggrao-c 
every  time  he  came  to  town.  It  was  this  liberty  which  left  it 
open  to  him  to  walk  from  The  Cedars  to  Wimbledon  station, 
that  day  when  he  went  to  inspect  the  Old  Madhouse. 

Now,  Fred  had  every  reason  for  expecting  a  letter  from  his 
uncle,  so  his  handwriting  on  Shortage's  note-paper  would  only 
have  been  surprising  in  so  far  as  it  would  have  been  evidence  of 
the  writer's  return  to  London  unexpectedly.  The  oddity  of  the 
thing  lay  in  the  fact  that  someone  else  had  written  to  Fred  from 
his  uncle's  peculiar  hotel,  where  no  one  else  who  wrote  letters 
to  him — so  he  thought — ever  would  or  did  go.  He  cancelled 
before  its  birth  an  idea  involving  the  forwarding  of  a  letter  to 
him  by  Shortage.     No  such  contingency  could  arise. 

\Miy  is  it  that  when  one  receives  a  letter  which  one  knows  all 
about  beforehand,  one  tears  it  open  promptly,  and  reads  it  all 
through  to  confirm  one's  certainty  of  its  contents?  WTiy,  on  the 
other  hand,  when  we  have  no  idea  of  them,  do  we  contemplate  the 
envelope  doubtfully  and  say  what  on  earth  can  this  be  about? — 
when  the  obvious  course  is  to  read  it  and  see? 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  41 

This  may  be  an  exceptional  experience  of  the  writer's.  Any- 
how, it  was  Fred's  course  with  this  letter.  He  hung  fire  about 
opening  it,  so  completely  at  a  loss  was  he  as  to  its  possible  con- 
tents. Yet  he  did  not  at  that  moment  anticipate  any  evil.  He 
was  face  to  face  with  the  inexplicable — that  was  all ! 

\Mien  he  ultimately  opened  it  he  found  two  letters; — one  to 
his  uncle,  unopened,  directed  in  a  woman's  hand;  the  other  to 
himself,  from  Shortage.  The  latter  had  thought  it  best,  for 
various  reasons,  to  depart  from  his  instructions  about  letters 
received  for  Dr.  Carteret  during  his  absence,  which  were  to  keep 
all  letters  at  the  hotel,  pending  instructions  to  send  chem  on. 
Mr.  Frederic  Carteret  would  note  that  the  envelope  was  stamped 
at  Vexton  Stuitifer  with  yesterday  morning's  date,  and  also  on 
the  envelope  with  the  name  of  the  school. 

'"Well — what  of  that?"  said  Mr.  Frederic  Carteret  aloud  to 
empty  space.  "  ^^^lat's  Shortage  in  a  pucker  about  ?  "  He  was 
not  the  least  alive  to  anything  unusual. 

Presently  it  dawned  upon  him,  uncomfortably.  It  certainly 
was  singular  that  a  correspondent  should  write  to  his  uncle,  in 
London,  from  the  school  itself.  It  looked  as  if  the  headmaster 
was  not  there.  But  he  was  there — Fred  knew  that.  .  .  .  Stop 
a  moment  though!     How  did  he  know? 

Well — he  didn't  know,  exactl3^  But  it  was  as  good  as  knowl- 
edge. Had  not  his  uncle  driven  away  from  his  mother's  house 
ten  days  or  a  fortnight  since,  certainly  meaning  to  go  and 
inspect  The  Cedars;  that  was  to  be  relied  upon,  surely!  Did 
he  go  there  though,  or  did  he  change  his  mind  and  go  some- 
where else?  Very  odd.  but  not  absolutely  impossible  I  It  would 
account,  too,  for  no  letter  having  come  about  the  house.  Yes — 
that  had  something  to  do  with  it.  But  wherever  he  went,  that 
would  throw  no  light  upon  his  absence  from  the  school  just  at 
the  beginning  of  the  term,  with  the  boys  returning  from  their 
Easter  holiday.  It  was  such  an  incredible  shortcoming  in  the 
most  rigid  of  headmasters.  W[\at  would  the  boys  in  Fred's 
time  have  thought  of  such  an  irregularitv?  The  end  of  the 
world! 

Pondering  over  an  anxiety  alone  in  the  silence  of  the  night 
does  not  relieve  it.  It  grows  and  grows.  The  various  possi- 
bilities of  accounting  for  that  inexplicable  letter,  lying  unopened 
on  the  table,  grew  less  and  less  tangible  with  every  new  effort. 
It  was  a  letter — so  ran  surmise — posted  long  ago,  overlooked  by 
the  functionaries  at  Vexton  Stuitifer,  and  sent  at  last  with  an 
overdue   stamp.      What   nonsense !      Well   then ! — it   had   been 


42  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

jiiisdated  by  accident^  a  slip  of  the  stamp,  and  detained  at  the 
office  to  gloss  over  the  blunder,  sent  on,  that  is,  as  soon  as  its 
date  warranted  it.  An  idiotic  idea !  It  was  an  escapade  of  the 
boys — some  irreverence  to  the  headmaster  they  thought  to  escape 
suspicion  of  by  sending  it  to  be  re-forwarded.  Rubbish  out- 
right! As  if  any  boys  would  not  know  what  postmarks  meant. 
Better  to  acknowledge  the  insolubility  of  the  problem  at  once 
than  make  it  the  subject  of  such  abortive  solutions ! 

It  would  ratify  a  renunciation  of  further  speculation  to  put 
on  a  working  jacket  and  turn  up  the  cuffs.  Fred  did  so,  and  felt 
satisfied.  He  could  make  that  slight  modification  of  the  Non- 
Vibrator  and  get  to  bed,  and  place  the  riddle  before  his  friend 
Charley's  legal  mind  at  breakfast.  These  young  men  had  con- 
tracted a  habit  of  breakfasting  at  each  other's  rooms  alternately. 
It  was  Mr.  Snaith's  turn  to  come  to  him  to-morrow,  and  he  could 
possess  his  soul  in  peace  till  then,  subject  to  the  duplex  action 
of  that  engine,  which  its  inventor  could  almost  feel  not  vibrating, 
as  he  thought  of  the  enormous  horse-power  it  was  going  to 
develop. 

Not  but  that,  if  that  was  the  sound  of  a  legal  mind  coming 
up  the  stone  stair-flight  by  fits  and  starts,  he  might  just  as  well 
hear  its  opinion  before  going  to  bed.  The  stillness  of  the  night 
made  all  things  audible,  even  a  footstep  through  a  street  door. 
Fred  went  out  and  called  over  the  hand-rail,  as  soon  as  he  was 
certain  it  wasn't  Upstairs,  who  was  just  as  likely  to  be  coming 
in  late  as  the  First  Floor: — "Is  that  you,  Charley?"  Which 
was  an  absurd  question,  as  its  form  implied  that  the  answer 
was  known. 

"  Suppose  it  is,  why  shouldn't  it  be  ?  You're  up  late,  young 
feller.    .    .    .   All  right — I'll  come  up." 

"  Something  I  want  you  to  look  at.  .  .  .  No — certainly 
nothing  wrong.  Only  something  I  can't  make  out.  Clck ! " 
This  is  the  only  known  way  of  spelling  an  exhortation  freely 
used  to  horses. 

"  Coming — coming — coming!  "  says  that  horse,  with  as  much 
of  remonstrative  impatience  as  a  real  quadruped  would  often 
express,  granting  speech.  "  Why  this  unseemly  haste  ?  I  say, 
Fred,  I've  got  a  message  for  you,  from  a  lady." 

"  I  want  you  to  look  at  this  letter  I  can't  make  out.  Who's 
the  lady?     What's  the  message?  " 

"  Give  us  the  letter-."  The  conversation  intersects,  as  much 
talk  does.  Fred,  less  interested  in  the  message  than  in  the 
letter,  drops  the  former,  and  hands  the  latter  to  his  friend,  with 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  43 

its  companion,  for  explanation.     "  That's  from  the  hotel-keeper 
wliere  my  uncle  puts  up,"  says  he. 

Mr.  Snaith  took  the  open  letter,  and  read  it  with  the  respon- 
sible air  of  one  who  legally  advises  legion.  He  was  cultivating 
a  professional  tone,  and  this  letter  brought  with  it  an 
opportunity. 

"  Now  the  other,"  said  lie,  after  two  readings. 

"  It's  not  opened,"  said  Fred.  "  But  you  can  see  the  out- 
side." 

"  I  suppose  that  means  I'm  not  to  open  it.     Why  not?" 

"^  Well — it's  a  letter  to  somebody  else." 

"  Then  forward  it.     \Miere  is  he  ?  " 

"  My  uncle  ?    At  the  school — must  be !  " 

"  And  where  did  the  letter  come  from  ?  " 

"  The  school !    That's  the  fix  !  " 

"  That  is  the  fix."  Mr.  Snaith  is  turning  the  unopened  letter 
up  and  down,  over  and  under.  Presently  he  sees  his  way  to 
something.     "  Got  any  methylated  ?  "  he  asks. 

"  1  thought  you  would  be  at  that  game,"  says  Fred.  But  he 
produces  a  phial  bottle,  with  a  very  little  spirit  at  the  bottom. 
There  is  only  Just  enough  to  moisten  the  direction  side  of  the 
envelope,  and  the  transparency  is  only  temporary.  But  both 
have  read  something  before  it  evaporates. 

"  "What  did  you  see?  "  says  Fred. 

"  '  Scarlet  fever.'  " 

"So  did  I." 

"What  else?" 

"'Ought  to  go  home?'" 

"So  did  I.     But  what  came  before — before  'ought'?" 

"  '  Boy  '—or  '  boys.'  " 

"Ah — but  which?"  The  point  cannot  be  settled,  and  all  the 
methylated  is  gone. 

The  young  men  look  blankly  at  one  another,  and  the  message 
from  a  lady  is  quite  forgotten. 

It  was  horribly  clear  that  scarlet  fever  had  broken  out  in  the 
school,  and  that  the  patient  or  "  the  boys  "  would  have  to  be 
packed  off  home.  And  this  was  apparently  written  to  the  head- 
master under  the  impression  th;:^.t  it  would  find  him  at  a  London 
hotel  where  he  had  certainly  not  been  for  a  fortnight. 

"Where  the  dickens  is  the  old  buffer?"  said  Mr.  Snaith, 
disrespectfully.  He  was  yawning,  too.  But  this  was  a  source 
of  comfort  to  Fred,  who  was  becoming  painfully  alive  to  the 
inexplicable  character  of  the  case;  for  it  was  clear  that  Charley 


44  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

had  no  missivino-s  about  the  safety  of  the  reverend  Doctor.    He 
never  would  have  called  him  an  old  buffer,  otherwise. 

Fred  affected  indifference,  and  overdid  it.  "  Oh — the  old 
bo3''s  all  right,  or  we  should  have  heard."  He  put  side  on;  but, 
for  all  he  was  so  confident,  he  considered  details  necessary. 
'•  I  expect  it's  his  father's  old  friend,  Lord  Ownership,  who's 
dying.  Nothing  more  likely  than  that  he  should  have  Uncle 
Drury  sent  for.  And  suppose  he  didn't  die,  but  hung  on.  .  .  . 
Well — what  could  my  uncle  do?  He  couldn't  say  he  was  forced 
to  be  at  the  school,  because  he  isn't.  He's  got  a  regiment  of 
under-masters  and  a  live  matron,  who  he  says  can  manage  the 
school  better  than  himself.     The  letter's  from  her.     Must  be !  " 

Then  Mr.  Snaith  undid  the  good  effect  of  his  expression  "  old 
buffer,"  and  seemed  to  doubt  the  validity  of  Lord  Ownership. 
"  Isn't  a  fortnight  rather  a  large  order?"  t^aid  he. 

"  Not  if  you  take  it  in  driblets.  '  One  day  more  won't  matter  ' 
— don't  you  knov/? — that  sort  of  thing!  It  soon  mounts  up." 
And  no  doubt  Fred  thought  this  contributed  to  explain  the 
position.  He  had  his  reservation,  however.  "  I  must  say  it  was 
rather  strange,  though,  that  he  never  wrote  to  Mrs.  What's-her- 
name  at  the  school,  to  say  where  ho  was." 

'•'  He  may  have  done  so.     How  do  we  know  ?  " 

'•  My  dear  Charley,  where  is  your  legal  acumen?  If  Mrs. 
Orpen — the  name's  Orpen— knew  where  he  was,  why  on  earth 
should  she  write  to  him  at  his  London  hotel?" 

Mr.  Snaith  saw  the  force  of  this  for  a  second,  then  perceived 
a  means  towards  reinstating  his  professional  reputation.  '*  Why, 
of  course  she  would,  if  he  wrote  to  tell  her  to  do  so.  That 
squares  it  all  up.  He  meant  to  come  back  to  London,  and  wrote 
to  her  to  let  him  have  news  by  the  way.  He  was  delayed  a  day. 
You  go  to  the  hotel  to-morrow,  and  you'll  find  him  there.  The 
whole  thing  is  nothing  but  the  blunder  of  the  hotel-keeper,  who's 
an  officious  ass.  You  do  as  I  say.  Go  to-morrow  and  take  him 
his  letter  back.  ...  1  say,  Fred,  it's  to-morrow  already — ha,s 
been,  for  two  hours  and  more." 

Fred  was  immensely  relieved  by  this  new  theory,  and  went 
so  far  as  to  wonder  why  we  had  not  thought  of  that  before.  Yes 
— that  was  the  best  thing  to  do.  He  would  go  straight  to  the 
hotel,  and  no  doubt  would  find  the  old  gentleman  there.  Of 
course  there  may  have  been  a  hundred  reasons,  of  which  we  knew 
nothing,  for  his  return  to  London.  Besides,  he  was  a  peculiar 
old  cock. 

Fred  would  have  had  to  sleep  soundly  on  the  strength  of  this 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  45 

fact — for  nothing  need  surprise  us  in  the  ways  of  peculiar  old 
cocks — -if  he  had  not  had  the  additional  assistance  of  his  friend's 
last  thcor}^,  which  really  was  very  plausihlo.  It  provided  a  fore- 
cast of  a  programme  for  next  day,  which  included  an  image  of 
the  Eev.  Drury,  denouncing  in  terms  scarcely  clerical  the 
presumption  and  impertinence  of  Mr.  Shortage  and  his  kind, 
not  without — so  Fred  hoped — some  recognition  of  his  own  dis- 
cretion and  promptitude  in  returning  the  letter  without  delay. 
In  fact,  Fred  fell  asleep  while  this  image  was  saying,  with 
knitted  brows : — "  Very  proper !  Yes,  nephew,  you  acted  quite 
rightly  to  bring  it  back  at  once.  No  serious  mischief  is  done 
now;  but  it  might  have  been — might  have  been!"  At  which 
point  Fred  dropped  asleep  and  the  image  became  merged  in  that 
of  a  scarlet  fever  patient,  who  worked  both  ways  and  conse- 
quently developed  no  vibration. 

But  he  was  not  destined  to  see  the  image  in  the  flesh,  or  any 
version  of  its  original,  confirmatory  of  its  accuracy  or  otherwise. 


CHAPTER  V 

Me.  Snaith  used  to  shave,  for  in  his  day  beards  were  no 
longer  in  a  majority,  and  he  considered  that  a  smooth  chin 
would  inspire  confidence  in  clients.  So  he  was  getting  round  a 
careful  corner  when  Fred  came  in  to  breakfast  next — or  later 
on  the  same — morning. 

"  Don't  agitate  a  feller,"  said  he  in  reply  to  a  question.  He 
negotiated  the  last  bar  of  his  shave,  and  came  out  of  his  bedroom 
using  two  hairbrushes  with  no  handles.  "  What's  that  about 
a  lady?" 

"  The  lady.  The  one  that  sent  me  a  message.  You  never 
gave  it.     Who's  the  lady  ?  " 

'■  Why — Miss  Hinchliffe,  of  course !  I  put  your  point  to  her 
about  how  I  was  to  address  your  young  woman,  and  she  was 
down  upon  my  view — said  I  was  making  difficulties.  But  she 
declined  to  give  a  final  opinion  without  seeing  the  parties. 
Especially  Elbows.  So  she  says  when  is  she  to  have  the  pleas- 
ure?    That's  the  message." 

Fred  reflected  on  the  remaining  days  of  the  current  week,  by 
name,  giving  each  one  time  for  consideration.  "'  Thursday — 
Friday — Saturday!  "  said  he.  "  No — I'm  fixed  for  every  after- 
noon. But  couldn't  we  make  it  Sunday  lunch  at  my  mother's? 
I  could  give  up  going  to  Upper  Norwood,  and  the  girls  could 
bike  over  to  Maida  Yale  instead.     They  would  just  as  soon." 

"  That'll  do,  prime !  Only  I  say — look  here !  Elbows  is  of 
the  essence  of  the  contract.     She's  got  to  come." 

"  All  right !  I  can  let  you  know  to-morrow.  Anything  in 
the  paper  ?  "  No — there  was  nothing  in  the  paper ;  only  the 
usual  political  rot.  This  was  Fred's  report,  after  a  very  short 
glance  at  the  vital  columns  of  the  Times.  Further,  there  was  no 
occasion  to  hurry  breakfast  on  his  account,  as  his  uncle  would 
not  be  visible  if  he  went  too  early. 

When  he  went  to  the  hotel,  the  reason  that  he  did  not  see  his 
uncle  was  that  his  uncle  was  not  there,  not  that  he  was  tech- 
nically invisible.  This  was  not  reassuring,  but  Fred  affected  to 
make  light  of  it.  He  told  Mr.  Shortage  that  although  he  had 
had  no  letter  from  Mr.  Carteret,  he  was  quite  satisfied  as  to  the 
causes  of  his  non-appearance  at  the  school,  and  repeated  the  con- 

43 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  47 

jecture  about  the  dying  nobleman.  Mr.  Shortage,  impressed  by 
the  peerage,  perceived  in  this  incident  a  means  of  accounting  for 
almost  any  departure  from  custom.  Still,  he  was  a  little  inclined 
to  justify  his  own  unusual  procedure,  in  sending  on  that  letter 
the  night  before.  "  It  is  now  twenty  years,"  said  he,  "  since 
Dr.  Carteret  first  made  this  hotel  his  'Ome  when  visiting  the 
metropolis — for  I  can  find  no  name  more  sootable  than  a  'Ome 
— and  never  have  I  made  bold  before  now  to  depart  from  his 
instructions,  namely,  to  keep  all  correspondence  till  wrote  for. 
This  doo  to  his  uncertainty  in  coming  and  going,  mainly  the 
result  of  parents  and  guardians.  And  I  venture  to  think,  Sir, 
that  if  you  take  in  consideration  all  the  circumstances   ..." 

"  I'm  not  finding  any  fault,  Mr.  Shortage,"  .said  Fred.  "  In 
fact,  I  don't  see  what  else  you  could  have  done.  It  was  such  a 
queer  turn-out."  He  was  rather  impatient  of  the  hotel-keeper's 
loquacity,  which  he  knew  of  old,  and  wanted  to  abbreviate. 

But  Mr.  Shortage  did  not  want  to  be  abbreviated.  "  Queer 
indeed,  Sir,"  said  he.  "  But  I  have  my  doubts — asking  your 
pardon  for  interruptin'  you — if  you  realise  how  queer.  Excuse 
me  if  I  take  the  liberty  of  appearing  prolix.     But   ..." 

"Something  you  haven't  mentioned?"  said  Fred,  and  settled 
down  to  listen. 

"  Only  this.  Sir.  The  reverend  gentleman  left  this  house  by 
the  very  same  door  you  come  in  at  just  now,  on  Saturday  week. 
His  last  words  to  me  was : — '  I  shall  lunch  at  Maida  Vale ' — at 
your  respected  mother's,  Mr.  Carteret — '  and  shall  go  back 
direct.'  Those  were  his  words,  and  not  'earin'  anything  to  the 
contry,  was  I  wrong  to  take  for  granted  he  arrived  at  his 
destination  ?  " 

"  Well — probably  he  did.     WTio  says  he  didn't  ?  " 

Mr.  Shortage's  rhetorical  manner  became  more  impressive,  as 
he  leaned  forward  to  say  in  a  deepened  voice,  behind  an  upraised 
finger : — "  Judge  of  my  surprise,  Mr.  Carteret,  when  three  days 
since  Mrs.  Orpen,  the  writer  of  this  unopened  letter,  as  I  think, 
calls  at  this  hotel  enquirin'  for  the  reverend  gentleman.  And 
what  gives  me  a  kind  of  turn  " — at  which  point  the  speaker  left 
rhetoric,  and  became  more  natural — "  she  says  the  headmaster 
has  never  been  back,  and  this  was  ten  days  after  he  had  wrote 
to  say  have  a  chop  ready  at  seven  forty-five.  He  never  came 
and  he's  never  come,  and  he's  not  there  now,  except  he's  got 
back  since  Mrs.  Hoe's  letter  was  posted."  He  spoke  of  Mrs. 
Orpen  by  her  initial,  and  overdid  it. 

Mr.  Snaith's  Lord  Ownership  theory  had  not  necessarily  in- 


48  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

volvcd  Dr.  Drury's  non-return  to  the  school.  It  only  sought 
for  what  would  cover  the  matron's  letter,  and  account  for  his 
not  being  at  the  hotel  when  it  was  delivered.  It  was  not  unrea- 
sonable to  suppose  that  he  had  gone  to  see  a  dying  friend  some 
days  after  arriving  at  Vexton,  and  written  to  the  matron  that 
he  was  returning  to  London,  where  a  letter  would  reach  him  as 
usual  at  his  hotel.  But  to  vanish  for  a  fortnight  and  communi- 
cate with  no  one !  Fred's  alarm  of  last  night  came  back,  when 
Mr.  Shortage  produced  this  incontestible  evidence  that  his  uncle 
had  never  been  at  Vexton. 

Naturally  he  relieved  his  feelings  by  finding  fault.  "  Do  you 
mean  to  say,"  said  he,  "  that  that  fool  of  a  woman  actually  knew 
Dr.  Drury  had  started  for  the  school  and  had  never  arrived,  and 
yet  never  came  to  tell  us  ?  " 

"  I  made  that  suggestion.  Sir,  to  Mrs.  Hoe,  and  she  did  not 
see  her  way  to  acting  upon  it,  not  wishing  to  give  unnecessary 
alarm.     Likewise,  she  said  she  could  'ardly  claim  acquaintance." 
"  What  the  devil  did  that  matter?" 

"  Nothing,  if  a  certainty."  Mr.  Shortage  seemed  rather  at  a 
loss  to  explain  his  view  of  the  matron's  position,  ])Ul  decided 
on : — "  But  if  convinced  that,  when  a  'eadmaster,  accidents  do 
not  happen,  the  contry  is  the  case.  Likewise,  as  she  said,  if  the 
Doctor  had  come  back  'ome  in  her  absence,  she  shouldn't  know 
which  way  to  look." 

"  Of  course  he  might.  And  he  may  have  done  so  now,  for 
that  matter,  since  she  wrote  that  letter." 

"  He  may  have,"  said  the  hotel-keeper.  But  there  was  some- 
thing in  his  manner  that  Fred  found  not  reassuring.  He 
thought  it  wisest  to  set  this  down  to  a  nervous  temperament  in 
Mr.  Shortage.  He  was  still  well  able  to  pooh-pooh  the  idea 
that  anything  was  amiss. 

"  Weil !  "  said  he.  "  I  quite  expected  to  find  him  here.  I 
suppose  he  changed  his  mind  and  went  straight  back.  But  per- 
haps he  didn't.  If  so,  he'll  be  here  in  the  course  of  the  day. 
Send  me  a  wire  to  my  chambers  when  he  comes." 

He  did  not  go  back  to  the  Temple,  but  after  walking  about 
musing  over  a  question  he  asked  himself  and  could  not  answer, 
he  turned  into  the  telegraph  office  in  Fleet  Street,  and  wrote 
a  telegram  to  Mrs.  Orpen  at  the  school.  The  question  had 
been : — If  a  member  of  your  family  were  to  disappear,  and  could 
not  be  accounted  for,  how  long  a  time  should  you  allow  to  pass 
before  making  enquiries?  He  shrank  from  phrasing  it  men- 
tally : — "  Before    going    to    the    police."      The    telegram    was 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  49 

simply: — "Is  Dr.  Carteret  at  the  school?     Eeply  to  17  Maida 
Vale,  Carteret.'^ 

The  answer  to  the  telegram  might  arrive  at  his  mother's 
before  he  did,  unless  he  looked  alive.  He  did  so,  to  the  extent 
of  climbing  up  on  the  front  seat  of  what  proved  to  be  a  Bays- 
water  bus,  not  going  the  whole  way.  He  felt  that  he  wanted  to 
talk  about  unexplained  disappearances,  but  did  not  see  his  Avay 
to  introducing  the  subject  to  the  driver;  and  he  could  not  turn 
round  and  speak  of  it  to  a  man  on  the  seat  behind  him  with  a 
basket  of  fish,  whose  identity,  concealed  from  the  eye  by  news- 
papers, betrayed  itself  by  its  smell.  This  man  and  the  driver 
lived  in  a  world  of  their  own,  from  which  they  rather  pointedly 
excluded  passengers  on  the  front  seat.  The  conversation  was 
one  long  enigma,  which  Fred  tried  to  solve  in  vain. 

"  Anythin'  doin'  your  way?"  said  the  driver. 

"  ''Orkins  is  orf,"  said  the  fish  unit.  "  'Arrison's  made  his 
lucky,  and  they  talk  of  makin'  it  fourteen  'underweight  instead 
of  diwision.  Others  is  in  favour  of  the  system,  all  round,  and 
leaving  off  on  Thursdays.     I  don't  put  my  money  on  neither." 

"  What's  become  of  old  Isaacson  ?  "  said  the  driver. 

'''  He's  a  bit  off  his  chump,  they  do  say.  Bein'  took  proper 
care  on,  in  the  manner  o'  speakin',  in  one  of  these  'ere  hear- 
sylums.  Ah — there  was  a  man  now !  He'd  never  have  stood 
any  of  this  here  finickin'  round,  not  he.  He'd  have  had  some 
of  'em  to  rights  long  afore  this,  I  lay." 

"'  Trust  him !  "  said  the  driver.  "  Why,  I've  known  that  man 
'old  his  tongue  by  the  hour  together.  And  when  he  said  five 
pound,  he  meant  five  pound.  ..."  And  so  the  conversation 
proceeded,  without  its  hearer  being  able  to  attach  any  meaning 
whatever  to  it,  until  he  disembarked  at  the  Marble  Arch. 

The  mystery  of  Hawkins,  Harrison,  and  old  Isaacson,  was  so 
inscrutable  that  it  kept  possession  of  his  mind,  as  an  insoluble 
enigma,  almost  to  the  point  of  his  arrival,  on  a  second  bus,  at 
the  gate  of  17  Maida  Vale.  What  a  relief  it  would  be  to  him 
if  a  yellow  paper  had  come  for  him  to  say,  for  instance : — 
'•  Arrived  last  night  all  well  am  writing  Carteret."  For  his 
imagination  supplied  the  exact  wording  of  a  welcome  telegram. 

At  any  rate,  unless  he  found  the  telegram  there  already  on 
his  arrival  he  would  say  nothing  to  his  mother.  He  very  often 
dropped  in  to  lunch.  No  exi)lanation  of  that  was  necessary. 
And  why  need  she  know  anything  about  his  alarm — probably  a 
groundless  one — if  his  uncle's  absence  was  accounted  for?  Be- 
hind his  scare  lay  the  knowledge  that  his  mother  would  be  much 


50  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

more  concerned  than  himself  if  "  anything  "  had  happened  to  the 
ohl  boy.  Not  tliat  he  was  without  affection  for  him,  but  that  his 
affection  had  in  it  an  element  that  played  towards  it  the  part 
that  discretion  plays  to  valour. 

His  pause  at  the  front  gate  after  ringing,  with  the  little  dachs- 
hund within  dabbing  at  it  and  addressing  him  through  it,  leaves 
time  for  a  word  or  two  on  the  relation  of  Mrs.  Carteret  to  her 
brother-in-law. 

The  manner  of  it  had  been  thus.  Forty  years  ago,  she  had 
been  one  of  the  prettiest  twelve-year-olds  that  ever  a  fifteen-year- 
old  fell  in  love  with,  boy-wise,  over  the  wall  that  parted  his 
parents'  garden  from  hers.  The  respective  owners  of  the 
gardens  laughed,  and  said : — "  Let  them !  '^  It  would  all  die 
out  and  be  forgotten  in  due  course,  like  a  thousand  other  flames 
warranted  to  burn  for  ever.  WTiat  did  it  matter  to  what  degree 
of  distraction  young  Fred  Carteret  and  Emilia  Stacey  loved 
each  other?  Each  of  them  would  probably  live  to  love  some 
other — some  half-dozen  others — to  distraction,  before  finding  out 
that  married  bliss  has  its  seamy  side  which  seldoms  sees  the  light. 
At  least,  leave  the  flowers  in  Hope's  garden  to  live  their  natural 
life  and  die! 

But  the  buds  of  Fred's  and  Emilia's  flowers  were  not  destined 
to  be  nipped.  They  were  to  bloom  and  blossom  and  end  as 
fruits ;  sweet  or  sour  as  might  be,  but  still  the  consummation  of 
the  tree's  growth.  Seven  years  found  the  lovers  of  the  same 
mind,  in  spite  of  the  occasional  stirring  of  little  tiff-ripples  on 
the  sea  of  their  contentment.  By  the  time  their  joint  ages  had 
passed  forty  years,  matrimony  had  ceased  to  be  an  air-castle — 
had  in  fact  for  the  past  two  years  been  admitted  to  come  within 
practical  politics.  Marriage  followed  at  the  ideal  ages  of  twenty- 
tvro  and  nineteen.      There  was  not  a  cloud  on  the  horizon. 

Xot  a  visible  one,  at  any  rate.  But  invisible  because  no  one 
looked  towards  its  quarter  of  the  heavens.  All  took  for  granted 
that  Fred's  grave  elder  brother  had  no  reserve  in  his  rejoicing 
at  the  wedding  festivity.  And  it  must  be  admitted  that  what- 
ever that  young  parson  concealed,  he  made  the  concealment 
effectual.  No  one  dreamed  that  years  had  passed  since  a  dis- 
cipline had  become  a  part  of  his  life,  enjoining  one  suprem^e 
duty — he  must  not  love  Emilia;  that  day  by  day,  his  earliest 
word  at  sight  of  her,  his  latest  at  parting  from  her,  was  that 
injunction  to  his  soul — his  soul  that  resented  its  necessity — 
"  You  must  not  love  her !  "  He  locked  his  secret  in  his  heart, 
with  a  dead  weight  in  it  that  made  his  utterance  of  the  wedding- 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  51 

service — for  he  had  to  marry  them — a  penance  never  to  be 
forgotten. 

Xo  one  who  had  to  do  with  the  Eev.  Drury  Carteret  in 
after  years  ever  imagined  that  he  had  a  story — a  love  story — 
in  the  background  of  his  life.  And  the  worst  sort  of  love  story 
— a  record  of  love-hunger  whose  satisfaction  was  by  hypothesis 
impossible;  of  which  the  mere  disclosure,  even  to  the  soul  that 
had  to  bear  it,  was  a  thing  to  recoil  from  and  resent.  Folk 
generally  thought  the  headmaster  of  Vexton  a  hard  man — 
almost  harsh — and  certainly  a  stranger  to  any  passion  that 
deserved  the  name  of  tender.  But  he  was  only  what  a  constant 
tension  on  his  life  had  made  him,  and  one  of  the  most  painful 
features  of  it  was  that  he  was  forced — as  it  were  in  self-defence 
— to  show  this  disciplinarian  or  repellent  side  of  his  character 
to  his  still  beautiful  sister-in-law.  Even  now,  the  slightest 
yielding  to  his  repressed  impulse  seemed  to  him  a  step  over  a 
precipice.  Five-and-twenty  years  of  this  position  had  made  him 
what  the  story  saw  him,  that  day  a  fortnight  since,  when  he 
went  over  to  inspect  the  Old  Madhouse. 

Eemember  that  we  live  in  a  world  full  of  commonplace  people, 
negative  people;  flat,  stupid,  uninteresting  people,  every  one  of 
whom  has,  behind  a  personality  which  does  not  appeal  to  us — 
important  us — a  story  of  some  sort,  and  often  one  worth  the 
telling.  And  remember  that  what  we  have  seen  of  them,  and 
have  called  by  their  names,  has  not  been  really  thcm^  but  only 
evidence  of  their  existence.  To  which  we  have  paid  no  atten- 
tion. 

However,  that's  Philosophy,  so  called.  It  is  not  worth  keep- 
ing Fred  Carteret  any  longer  standing  at  that  gate,  to  indulge 
in  Philosophy.  To  say  nothing  of  that  little  dachshund's  im- 
patience, which  is  threatening  to  rend  his  soul  by  the  time 
Lipscombe  comes  to  open  it. 

His  impatience  does  not  seem  well-grounded  when  the  gate  is 
opened,  for  his  object  in  rushing  out  seems  to  be  to  inspect  and 
deal  with  the  two  corners  of  the  gate-piers.  After  which  he  gets 
upstairs  as  quick  as  may  be,  with  his  toes  turned  too  much  out, 
and  presumably  informs  his  mamma  that  her  human  son  is 
following  him.  Or,  she  may  have  recognised  the  voice  below, 
telling  Lipscombe  that  cold  mutton  is  all  the  speaker  wants. 
Probably  the  latter,  as  otherwise  her  remark  as  she  greets  her 
son  lacks  meaning : — "  There  is  sure  to  be  fish  enough."  An 
afterthought  causes  misgiving : — *'  Unless  Cit's  coming."  For 
the  two  young  people  are  quite  inconsiderate  enough  to  come 


52  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

plunging  in  without  notice.  This  was  Nancy's  expression,  ap- 
plied to  a  case  in  point. 

"Oh  no — she's  not  coming.  At  least,  I  haven't  asked  her." 
Fred  adds,  and  believes,  that  "  anything  will  do "  for  him. 
Other  young  men  may  have  thought  the  same,  cceteris  'paribus. 

"Is  anything  the  matter?"  His  mother  asks  this  suddenly, 
as  though  she  had  heard  something  in  the  tone  of  his  voice- 
something  amiss. 

Oh  dear  no !  Nothing  was  the  matter.  Nothing  was  ever 
further  from  being  the  matter.  The  freedom  from  cloud  of  the 
heavens,  at  all  points  of  the  compass,  was  in  fact  phenomenal. 
Of  course,  Fred  overdid  it.  His  mother  only  looked  at  him 
attentively  for  a  moment,  then  decided  in  her  mind  that  he  and 
Cit  had  been  tiffing!  Never  mind!  He  would  confess  directly,, 
and  then  the  tiff  would  blow  over.  That  was  what  tiffs  did, 
of  this  sort. 

However,  nothing  transpired.  On  the  contrary,  when,  after 
some  delay  owing  to  a  slight  intensification  of  lunch  to  cover  the 
incoming  of  a  second  constituent,  they  found  themselves  at  a 
board  enriched  with  unexpected  soup,  what  seemed  to  be  exer- 
cising Fred's  mind  was  tliat  knotty  point  about  what  he  should 
call  ]\Iiss  Hinchliffe.  He  sketched  the  position  for  his  mother's 
benefit,  and  she  appeared  to  weigh  the  questions  involved  with 
all  due  gravity.  She  remarked  that,  in  her  youth,  Christian- 
naming  was  much  more  common  than  nowadays.  This  delusion 
is  so  strong  at  all  times  of  the  world  that  it  may  be  safely 
referred  to  the  same  cause  in  all  cases — the  fact  that  3-outh  is 
the  age  of  Christian  names.  What  is  the  value  of  infancy's  im- 
pression about  what  grown-ups  arc  calling  each  other?  Mrs. 
Carteret  was  not  sure  that  had  not  something  to  do  with  it. 
"  However,"  she  said,  "  1  quite  see  your  friend  Mr.  Snaith's 
point  of  view.  Of  course  he  cannot  call  Cit  '  Cintra  '  and  her 
sister  ]\Iiss  Fraser.  It  would  make  a  formality.  And,  on  the 
other  hand,  he  could  only  address  her  as  Nancy  by  express 
invitation.  It  might  have  been  different  with  another  name; 
Eliza  for  instance,  or  Gertrude.  But  there  is  something  flip- 
pety-skippety  about  '  Nancy.'  I  suppose  it's  because  '  saucy ' 
ends  in  cy." 

"  Shouldn't  wonder !  But  I  see  the  fix  in  this  light.  If 
Charley  Snaith  were  my  brother   ..." 

"  But  he  isn't  your  brother." 

"  No — I  know.     Bi;t  suppose  he  were !  " 

"  Well— what  then?  " 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  53 

"  He'd  be  in  for  Christian-naming  all  round." 

"  I  don't  see  that.  He  would  call  your  wife  Sarah  or  Martha 
or  Penthesilea — anything  her  name  happened  to  be — and  she 
would  call  him  Charles.  Because  of  consanguinity.  But  he 
wouldn't  call  her  sister  anything  but  Miss  Smith — or  Jones  or 
Montmorenc}' — M'hichever  it  was."  Fred  looked  doubtful,  and 
Mrs.  Carteret  continued.  "  Yes — I'm  perfectly  right.  Mr. 
Snaith  is  not  your  brother,  so  Cintra  is  not  going  to  be  his 
sister.  Of  course  he  can  Christian-name  her  by  special  arrange- 
ment. Only,  he  must  call  Nancy  Miss  Fraser,  unless  she  con- 
sents to  be  '  Nancied  '  by  him."  Fred  still  looked  doubtful. 
''  ^^^ly,  my  dear  silly  boy,  don't  you  see  it's  exactly  the 
same  with  his  Miss  Henchman — Hinchliffe — what's  her 
name   .    .    .  ? " 

''  Lucy.     Lucy  Hinchliffe." 

'•'  If  Miss  Lucy  Hinchliffe  had  a  sister,  and  Mr.  Snaith  were 
your  brother,  you  would  call  her  Lucy  as  a  matter  of  course. 
But  you  would  have  to  '  Miss '  her  sister,  all  the  same, — unless 
she  was  married.   ..." 

'•'  I  don't  see  why." 

''  Stupid  Fred !  Can't  you  see  that  you  could  marry  her, 
while  if  Mr.  Snaith  departed  this  life  ever  so,  you  couldn't  marry 
his  widow — not  if  he  were  your  brother." 

"  I  s-see.  It's  a  matter  of  consanguinity."  Fred  appre- 
hended slowly.  "  It's  the  same  thing  as  .  .  . "  Something 
stopped  him,  and  not  only  did  his  mother  know  what  it  was, 
but  he  himself  knew  she  knew  it  a  moment  later,  and  felt  he 
would  have  liked  to  have  his  last  words  back.  But,  after  all, 
did  it  matter?  For,  consider,  how  senior  his  mother  and  his 
old  uncle  were  !  How  could  the  subject  be  what  his  mind  classed 
as  a  ticklish  one,  in  the  face  of  such  seniority? 

He  could  quite  understand  that  delicate  considerations  were 
involved  in  the  important  question  of  whether  he  could  address 
Miss  Hinchliffe  as  Lucy;  because  how  could  the  position  be  other 
than  delicate,  looking  at  all  the  points  involved?  Looking  espe- 
cially at  the  young  lady's  eyes  and  lips,  which  Fred  found  he 
recollected.  In  the  early  twenties  one  cultivates  susceptibilities 
to  which  a  previous  generation  may  always  have  been  strangers, 
and  certainly  must  have  become  insensible  to  by  now.  Or,  if  one 
grants  a  certain  latitude  of  humanity  to  one's  ancestors  generally, 
one  must  needs  draw  a  line  at  mothers  and  uncles,  still  living. 
Nevertheless,  Fred  elided  the  rest  of  his  speech,  and  turned  it 
into   a  remonstrance   with  the   little   dachshund,   whose   whole 


54  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

attitude  was  a  reminder  that  this  was  his  lunch;  as  well  as,  if 
not  more  than,  that  of  his  betters. 

It  is  the  business  of  a  story  to  look  into  the  minds  of  its 
characters,  and  this  one  may  hold  noteworthy  a  fact  in  that 
of  Mrs.  Carteret.  She  had  never  asked  her  son  if  he  had  yet 
heard  from  his  uncle,  which  may  have  been  either  that  she  was 
satisfied  that  nothing  was  wrong  in  that  quarter  or  that  she 
had  misgivings  that  something  was,  and  shrank  from  suggesting 
alarms.  But  the  thing  this  effect  of  consanguinity  was  "  the 
same  thing  as,"  brought  him  into  court — the  court  of  her  con- 
sciousness— and  warranted  an  enquiry  about  his  odd  silence. 
She  brushed  aside  as  contemptible  and  ridiculous — with  her  own 
son — a  momentary  reluctance  to  risk  showing  that  he  had  been 
so  brought  into  court,  and  made  no  more  ado,  but  asked  her 
question.  Had  Fred  had  no  letter  from  his  uncle?  She  even 
began  it  with  ''  By  the  by,"  almost  acknowledging  what  had  made 
her  think  of  him. 

"  Well — the  fact  is  .  .  . "  Fred  began,  and  hung  fire  over 
it.     He  ought  to  have  said  merely : — "  No — have  you?  " 

''  Is  anything  the  matter  ?  " 

"  Oh  dear  no  !     \Yhat  made  you  think  so  ?  " 

"  Only  vou  looked  so   .    .    ." 

"So  wiiat?  I  didn't  look  anything.  .  .  .  Well— I'll  tell 
you.  The  fact  is,  I  came  here  to-day  to  see  if  you  had  .  .  . 
had  heard  from  him,  I  mean." 

"  I  have  heard  nothing  .  .  .  Fred  dear! — don't  look  so  un- 
comfortable." Mrs.  Carterest  paused  an  instant,  then  said  ear- 
nestly and  quickly : — "  Do  tell  me  if  anything's  the  matter." 

"  Well — no — nothing's  the  matter.  .  .  .  However !  .  .  . 
Well,  I  suppose  I  may  as  well  tell  you.  I  can't  exactly  make 
out  where  Uncle  Dru  is."  Under  the  circumstances,  it  was  not 
an  easy  thing  to  say  in  an  unconcerned  way.  Fred  failed 
signally. 

"  '\\^y  not  at  the  school,  as  usual?  " 

"  Would  the  matron  be  writing  to  him  at  Shortage's,  if  he 
were  ?  " 

'MMiy — no!  But  has  she  written?  What  has  she  written? 
How  do  you  know  ?  "  Fred  told  how  he  knew — told  the  whole 
story.  He  ended  with  his  sending  of  the  telegram  to  Mrs. 
Orpen,  and  how  he  was  momentarily  expecting  its  arrival.  He 
did  not  intend  to  be  the  least  astonished  if  his  uncle  was  not  at 
the  school,  and  of  course  that  would  account  for  a  letter  coming 
for  him  in  London.     Neither  would  he  feel  the  slightest  surprise, 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  55 

if  enquiry  showed  that  the  old  boy  had  not  reappeared  at  Short- 
age's. His  attitude  was,  that  nothing  should  be  regarded  as 
improbable  except  that  "  anything  had  happened." 

As  his  mother  seemed  still  uneasy  and  dissatisfied,  he  pro- 
duced his  friend's  theory,  which  had  had  such  a  soothing  effect 
the  night  before.  "  I  fancy  Charley  may  be  right,"  said  he. 
"  Ten  to  one  Lord  Ownership's  people  have  sent  for  Uncle  Dru. 
You  know  how  thick  they  were,  and  now  the  old  man's  dying, 
nothing  is  more  likely  than  that  he  should  send  for  him.  Old 
college  chums,  don't  you  see?  It  would  have  to  be  something 
serious  to  make  him  chuck  the  school,  just  at  the  beginning  of 
the  midsummer  term.      I  expect  it  will  turn  out  to  be  that." 

''  Is  Lord  Ownership  dying?  " 

"  /  don't  know.     The  newspapers  said  he  was." 

"  Are  you  sure  it  didn't  say  he  was  going  to  be  married  ?  " 

"  Quite  sure.     Dying.     He's  been  ill  ever  so  long." 

Now,  the  fact  was  that  Master  Fred  knew  nothing  whatever 
about  his  lordship,  except  that  he  and  Uncle  Drury  had  been 
at  Balliol  together,  and  were,  as  he  said,  "  very  thick."  All  the 
rest  was  newspaper. 

"  Of  course,"  said  Mrs.  Carteret,  welcoming  any  plausible 
theory,  "  that  would  go  a  long  way  to  account  for  it.  I  know 
your  uncle  would  be  very  much  upset.  But  I  can't  help  think- 
ing if  Lord  Ownership  had  been  dying,  I  should  have  heard. 
Your  uncle  would  have  mentioned  it." 

Well — he  is  dying.    The  Times  says  so.    May  I  smoke  ?  " 
Of  course  you  may.    ...   It  isn't  strong,  I  suppose?" 
N-no.      Only    one    of    these    little    bouquets.   .    .    .   Never 
mind !     I'll  smoke  it  later,  and  have  a  cigarette  now." 

"  Nonsense,  child !  How  particular  we  are,  all  of  a  sudden ! 
Besides,  I'm  going  upstairs  directly,  and  you  can  have  it  all  to 
yourself."  From  which  it  is  clear  that  lunch  is  on  its  very  last 
legs.     In  fact,  coffee  is  pending. 

Mrs.  Carteret  went  upstairs  directly,  and  her  son  had  it  all 
to  himself.  He  had  nothing  to  do  but  pooh-pooh  his  alarm 
about  his  uncle,  so  he  employed  himself  that  way;  also  he 
admitted  to  his  mind  a  speculation  as  to  whether  Cintra  would 
"  get  on  "  with  Lucy.  H'm — Lucy !  Well — Miss  Hinchliffe 
then.  This  was  a  concession  he  made  to  a  remonstrance  from 
himself.  He  must  fix  up  that  appointment  for  the  two  young 
ladies  to  be  made  known  to  one  another.  Wouldn't  do  to  forget 
that! 

He  had  great  faith  in  Cintra's  common  sense.     No  girl  could 


« 


a 


56  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

be  freer,  for  instance,  from  any  trace  of  nonsensical  jealousy  of 
another  girl.  There  were  girls  like  that,  he  knew;  girls  who, 
if  they  could  read  their  husband's  or  lover's  minds  and  found 
in  them  so  much  as  a  recollection  of  what  colour  another  girl's 
eyes  were,  or  of  the  mere  outline  of  her  lips — with  that  little 
dimple,  don't  you  know,  coming  and  going — would  fly  into  an 
awl'ul  rage  directly.  Cintra  was  not  that  sort.  Besides,  her 
faith  in  him  was  perfect.  Of  course,  it  was  natural  that  it 
should  be,  being  so  well-grounded.  There  were  fellows,  whom 
he  knew,  who  were  not  to  be  trusted.  However,  they  generally 
cottoned  to  girls  of  that  other  sort;  so  it  was  diamond-cut-dia- 
niond.  He  then  derived  a  marked  satisfaction — or  said  he  did, 
in  his  own  confidence — from  the  happy  choice  his  friend  had 
made,  complexion  perhaps  apart. 

Lucy — h'm !  He  tapped  the  ash  off  his  bouquet,  a  long  ash 
that  left  almost  no  cigar  behind,  and  remarked  to  himself  what 
a  fortunate  chap  Charley  Snaith  was  to  have  won  the  affections 
of  a  girl  v/ho  could  see  below  the  surface,  who  was  not  taken  in 
by  mere  superficial  appearances.  Fred  could  not  disguise  from 
himself  the  fact  that  Charley  was  not  exactly  an  Adonis.  But 
did  he  try  to?  He  finished  his  cigar,  and  was  departing  to  join 
his  mother  upstairs,  when  he  heard  her  coming  down  slowly. 
She  was  looking  at  a  newspaper  as  she  came,  to  judge  by  a 
rustle;  one  that  outclassed  the  rustle  of  her  silk  dress. 

"  I  was  sure  I  was  right,"  said  she.  "  Lord  Porchisthorpe's 
dying — not  Lord  Ownership  at  all !     Read  that." 

Fred  took  the  offered  Times,  and  read  the  indicated  para- 
graph. It  appeared  that  the  former  nobleman  had  not  main- 
tained his  slight  rally  of  yesterday,  and  his  medical  advisers  gave 
little  ground  for  hope.  So  the  worst  was  feared  and  the  Count- 
ess was  sent  for.  Fred  didn't  see  what  Lord  Porchisthorpe  had 
to  do  in  the  matter.     "Wasn't  Lord  Ownership  dying  too? 

"  Certainly  not.  He's  going  to  be  married,  to  the  Honour- 
able Miss  Somebody  Something,  a  Maid  of  Honour.  ,  .  .  Xo 
— he's  not  there.    He's  in  '  Court  and  Society.' " 

Fred  found  a  statement  to  this  effect  as  indicated,  and  seemed 
to  accept  it  on  reading  the  full  name  of  the  fortunate  lady.  But 
he  said : — '*'  I  don't  see  what  Lord  Porchisthorpe  has  to  do  with 
it.     He's  dying  on  his  own  account." 

"Foolish  boy!  Don't  you  see  that  you  muddled  the  two 
names  together?    Or  Mr.  Snaith  did." 

"  I  don't  see  that  they  are  so  much  alike." 

"  Yes,  they  are.     At  least  they  are  the  sort  of  names  that 


THE  OLD  >IADHOUSE  57 

get  mixed  up.  If  you  forgot  both,  you  would  be  just  as  likely 
to  remember  one  as  the  other.     But,  Fred !  " 

''But  what?" 

"Where  is  3'Our  uncle?"  Her  alarm  was  unconcealed  now, 
and  panic  was  growing  in  her  voice. 

Fred  cast  about  for  some  new  pretence  that  all  was  well.  A 
feeble  attempt  to  connect  his  uncle's  absence  with  the  aristo- 
cratic wedding  failed  miserably.  He  ended  by  an  unreasonable 
assumption  that  his  uncle  must  have  arrived  at  the  school,  by 
now,  or  he  would  have  received  an  answer  to  his  telegram. 

"  What  nonsense,  Fred !  As  if  ]\[rs.  Orpen  would  delay  her 
answer  because  he  was  there !  "     And  it  was  nonsense. 

He  who  knows  the  miseries  of  doubt  about  an  absent  person 
may  be  able  to  picture  the  growing  anxiety  of  Fred  and  his 
mother  as  time  passed  and  no  telegram  came.  Xeither  sug- 
gested that  this  uneasy  vigil  might  be  cut  short,  and  the  telegram 
left  to  appear  as  it  listed.  Least  of  all  did  Fred  entertain  any 
idea  of  going  away  and  awaiting  its  appearance  elsewhere.  He 
paced  restlessly  about,  looking  from  the  window  for  an  exj^ected 
messenger  boy  on  a  bicycle,  and  seeing  none. 

An  unfeeling  clock  struck  three,  and  no  telegram  had  come. 
Then  presently  a  knock  made  Fred  jump  and  begin  to  say : — 
"  There  it  is !  "  But  he  did  not  finish  his  statement,  for  the 
knock,  which  began  staccato,  and  might  have  been  a  telegram, 
ended  in  a  trill  and  was  a  visitor — a  double-dyed  visitor.  Mrs. 
Carteret  knew  who  it  was — that  tiresome  Finch  Elliot  woman — 
and  she  supposed  she  must  be  at  home.  Fred  deserted  her 
basely,  leaving  her  to  deal  with  the  Finch  Elliot  alone,  and  read 
the  first  book  he  chanced  on  in  the  back-room — Pepys'  Diary, 
as  it  happened.  But  he  found  Pepys  palled^  even  when  he 
and  Mrs.  Pepys  whipped  the  servant  girl  and  shut  her  in  the 
cellar.     He  could  fix  his  mind  on  nothing. 

Was  that  confounded  Finch  Elliot  woman  never  going?  Her 
genial  manner,  audible  through  the  closed  folding  door,  was 
exasperating.  Her  intermittent  sudden  laugh,  like  the  chatter 
of  some  bird  Fred  had  heard  at  the  Zoo,  always  in  anticipation 
of  her  audience's  recognition  of  her  own  humour,  was  like  the 
waterdrop  of  the  Inquisitorial  tormentor.  He  knew  by  the  tone 
of  her  voice  when  it  was  going  to  come,  and  it  came — always  a 
descending  arpeggio  landing  on  a  squeaky  jerk,  like  a  note  of 
interrogation,  at  the  end. 

He  could  not  make  out  what  it  was  all  about.  But  there  was 
a  Committee ;  that  was  something  to  know.      The  Committee 


58  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

was  at  loggerheads;  that  was  natural — Committees  always  are! 
There  was  an  obvionsly  right  course  before  it — or  them — and 
the  Finch  Elliot  woman  was  on  the  side  of  the  right.  One's 
informant  always  is.  Did  anyone  ever  yet  communicate  with 
a  person  who  Avas  in  the  wrong?  There  was  a  hcte-noire,  Fred 
gathered  from  the  frequent  repetition  of  a  half-heard  name  in  a 
particular  tone  of  voice.  But  was  it  possible  that  he  heard  it 
right?  He  listened  afresh,  every  time  it  came,  hoping  to  cor- 
rect his  first  impression  that  it  was  Stems.  But  the  Finch  Elliot 
woman  gave  no  quarter,  and  he  had  to  accept  the  name,  incredu- 
lously. Would  that  idiot  of  a  woman  never  go?  She  and  her 
Committee ! 

At  last  she  said  with  a  pounce  that  she  really  must  go.  She 
had  to  be  there — somewhere  or  other — at  five.  Fred  thanked 
the  Divine  Disposer  of  Events  from  the  bottom  of  his  heart. 
She  was  going  and  went,  with  voluble  recapitulation  to  the  last 
moment.  Fred  listened  through  his  own  door,  furtively  opened, 
and  had  the  satisfaction  of  hearing  his  mother  hope  that  Sir 
Thomas  would  give  in,  throwing  a  light  on  Stoms.  Then  the 
Finch  Elliot  woman  vanished  at  last,  and  Fred  went  out  into 
the  relieved  atmosphere  to  find  his  mother  asking  a  question  of 
Lipscombe,  over  the  banisters.  ^Yhat  was  that?  .  .  .  Bring 
it  up  here,  then  ! 

A  telegram  for  Mr.  Frederic,  and  the  boy  was  waiting !  Why 
in  Heaven's  name  then,  Lipscombe,  bother  about  the  silver  tray 
to  put  it  on?  But  Lipscombe  was  a  trained  parlour  maid,  and 
would  not  bate  a  jot  of  etiquette.  The  yellow  envelope  came 
upstairs  on  its  proper  conveyance,  and  usage  was  not  outraged. 

"Now,  at  any  rate,  we  shall  know  something."  Jlrs.  Car- 
teret's fingers  were  agitated  over  the  envelope,  and  not  at  their 
deftest.  Fred  said,  without  reason : — "  She's  sure  to  have  heard 
of  him.     Most  likely  he's  there  by  now,"  and  waited. 

But  what  he  waited  for  did  not  come — only  silence  and  knowl- 
edge why  he  had  no  answer.  For  there  could  be  no  doubt  of 
the  meaning  of  his  mother's  strained  look  as  she  read  the  tele- 
gram, and  re-read  it.  "  Let  me  look,"  said  he,  and  took  it  from 
her.  He  followed  her  into  the  drawing-room  as  he  read,  half- 
aloud : — "  The  Doctor  has  not  been  here  since  he  went  to  London, 
no  news  of  him  has  come  and  no  letter.     Orpen." 

]\rr?.  Carteret  had  fallen  into  a  chair  when  her  son  looked 
up  at  her  from  the  telegram.  "  \Miat  can  it  mean?"  said  she, 
and  her  voice  came  short  of  its  intention,  and  died  out. 

Fred  saw  he  must  plead  in  arrest  of  judgment.     "  Come,  I 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  59 

say,  Mother ! "  said  he,  "  we  mustn't  allow  ourselves  to  be  run 
away  with  by   ..." 

"By  what?" 

"  Well — we  mustn't  get  in  a  stew  because   ..." 

"  Because  what?  " 

"  Well — you  know  what  I  mean ;  we  need  not  conclude  that 
Uncle  Dru  has  .  .  .  come  to  grief  of  any  sort,  simply  because 
he  disappears  for  a  week  or  so." 

"  What — not  with  all  the  boys  just  coming  back  to  school 
you  know  how  particular  he  was." 

"''  Ye-es.     Of  course  I  know  all  that." 

"  Has  he  ever  been  known  to  miss  the  first  day  of  a  terra  ?  " 

'■  Wh}^ — no — perhaps  not!  " 

"  Certainly  not.  It  was  one  of  his  strong  points  always.  Oh, 
Fred,  something  is  wrong.      I'm  sure  of  it." 

"  Don't  let's  be  in  too  great  a  hurry !  " 

"  I  am  not  in  a  hurry.     But  something  must  be  done." 

"  Something  must  be  done.  Yes — but  what?  That's  the 
point.  Look  here,  Mother !  Let  me  speak  to  Charley  about 
this,  before  we  do  anything." 

"Yes — speak  to  Mr.  Snaith.  Speak  to  his  partner,  Mr. 
Trymer.  See  what  lie  says."  He  was  a  consolatory  man,  this 
Mr.  Tr}Tner,  cool  and  professional,  with  an  accurate  unimpeach- 
able hat.  He  was  the  sort  of  man  feebleness  at  a  loss  looks  to 
as  a  magazine  of  hidden  resource :  and  is,  to  say  the  truth,  as 
often  as  not  disappointed  in. 


CHAPTER  YI 

''*  I  SAT,  Charley,  this  is  a  devil  of  a  bad  job." 

"What  is?" 

"^  My  uncle  can't  be  found — anywhere." 

Mr.  Snaith,  on  the  lower  landing  of  their  common  staircase, 
looks  up  at  Fred,  who  has  been  anxiously  awaiting  him.  The 
clocks  are  striking  midnight,  each  at  a  time  of  its  own  selection. 
"How  do  you  know?"  says  he,  pausing,  latchkey  in  hand. 

"  I  mean — we  can't  find  out  where  he  is.  Come  up  and  I'll 
tell  you." 

Mr.  Snaith  puts  away  his  latchkey  and  comes  up,  making  the 
face  of  one  who  whistles,  inaudibly.  They  go  into  Fred's 
domicile,  and  that  young  man  gives  a  brief  account  of  the  events 
of  his  da3\  ''  I  hung  on  at  my  mother's  till  quite  late,"  he  says, 
concluding  it,  "  because  she  has  no  one  with  her,  and  of  course 
she's  getting  in  a  stew.  I  don't  see  that  there's  anything  I 
could  have  done." 

"You  haven't  communicated  with  the  police?"  This  is  mere 
orthodoxy  on  Mr.  Snaith's  part — a  thing  to  be  said,  no  more. 

"How  the  dickens  can  1?  Just  think,  suppose  the  old  boy 
turns  up  as  right  as  a  trivet — and  he  may,  any  minute, — think 
what  a  nice  rage  he'd  be  in  with  us  for  not  minding  our  own 
business !  " 

"  I  see  your  fix.     But  how  long  are  we  to  give  him  ?  " 

"Blest  if  I  know!  He's  had  a  fortnight  already — all  but!  " 
Master  Fred  has  implied,  by  the  way  he  spoke  of  his  mother, 
that  he  himself  is  not  in  a  stew.     But  he  is,  for  all  that. 

His  friend  gets  through  a  few  bars  of  that  inaudible  tune; 
then  says  suddenly,  as  one  who  means  business : — "  ^Vho  sav/ 
him  last?  " 

"  My  mother,  certainly.  I've  made  that  out.  He  left  our 
house  in  a  growler  last  Saturday  week,  to  go  back  to  Vexton 
by  the  five  o'clock  from  Waterloo.    ..." 

"Then  we  must  see  the  station  master  at  Waterloo.   ..." 

"  Easy  a  minute !  I  was  going  to  tell  you.  He  didn't  go  to 
Waterloo.  He  went  to  Wimbledon,  taking  that  house  on  the 
way— OM/-  house,  you  know— The  Cedars.  At  least,  he  said  he 
should." 

60 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  61 

"In  a  growler?" 

"  So  I  understood." 

"  Then  we  must  find  that  growler." 

"How?" 

"Advertise  for  it.  Growlers  don't  take  fares  all  the  way  to 
Wimbledon  and  forget  it,  in  a  fortnight.  The  cabby  will 
remember." 

Fred  looked  uncomfortable.  "But  suppose  my  uncle's  all 
right,  and  sees  the  advertisement?  There'll  be  a  pretty  how- 
do-you-do  !  " 

"  Very  well,  then  !  Stand  the  cabby  over  for  a  day  or  two.  It 
won't  make  any  difference.  But  look  here — here's  another  idea. 
Why  not  go  down  to  the  house  and  see  if  he  ever  went  there  ?  I 
expect  you  would  find  he  didn't.  Then,  after  that,  fish  out  the 
cabby,  and  find  where  he  did  go." 

"  I'm  afraid  it  won't  be  any  use.  There's  only  an  old  care- 
taker there,  and  she's  half-witted.  She  has  an  old  husband  who 
boozes." 

'^  Caretakers  have.  But  it  doesn't  matter  how  great  an  idiot 
she  is.  We  only  want  to  know  whether  he's  been  there  or  not. 
That's  not  much  to  recollect." 

"  I  tell  you  what,  Charley.  I  vote  we  go  to-morrow  to  the 
agent  at  Wimbledon.  My  uncle  must  have  gone  to  him  first, 
to  o-et  an  order  to  see  the  house.  He'll  remember  fast  enough. 
My  uncle  isn't  like  everybody  else." 

Thus  it  came  about  that  next  day  saw  Fred  and  his  friend 
interviewing  the  house-agent  at  Wimbledon.  This  gentleman 
suffered  from  an  obliging  disposition,  showing  itself  in  an  idea 
that  it  was  his  duty  at  all  costs  to  supply  an  answer  in  the 
affirmative  to  Fred's  enquiry  whether  two  Saturdays  ago  an 
elderly  clerical  gentleman  had  come  in  a  cab  for  an  order  to 
see  The  Cedars  at  Merton,  and  had  driven  on  to  see  the  said 
house ;  that  being  the  only  theory  that  held  water,  as  it  seemed 
improbable  that  his  uncle  would  drive  all  the  way  to  the  house 
without  some  security  that  he  would  be  shown  over  it.  Now 
this  obliging  disposition  of  this  house-agent,  who  had  no  recol- 
lection of  such  a  visitor,  prompted  him  to  negotiate  for  a  change 
in  the  identity  of  the  Eev.  Dr.  Carteret,  in  order  to  get  a 
ground  for  an  affirmative  answer. 

He  could  remember  nothing  unassisted  about  the  second  pre- 
vious Saturday — or  indeed  about  any  past  incident,  so  vast  and 
varied  were  his  business  transactions — without  referring  to  a 
liugc  folio  volume,  which  seemed  to  contain  all  contemporary 


62  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

history.  His  forefinger,  travelling  up  and  down  entries,  stopped 
now  and  again  as  though  it  had  a  bite  from  one  of  them.  Once, 
to  say : — "  Certainly — certainly — here  we  have  it.  Clerical 
gentleman  and  young  lady,  enquiring  for  residence  to  suit  re- 
quirements as  follows  ..."  But  Fred  nipped  him  in  the 
bud,  saying  that  no  young  lady  could  be  entertained  in  this 
connection.  And  then  presently  : — "  Ah  now ! — this  will  be 
correct,  no  doubt.  '  The  Rev.  Samuel  Smallwood  .  .  .'  That 
ivas  the  name,  I  believe.  Sir  ?  " 

"  No — that  it  wasn't !  The  Reverend — Drury — Carteret. 
Nobody  else  will  do." 

The  house-agent  looked  as  though,  if  he  had  not  been  a  meek 
house-agent,  he  would  have  protested,  and  pointed  out  the  un- 
reasonableness of  not  being  content  with  the  Rev.  Samuel  Small- 
wood.  Being  meek,  he  had  to  acquiesce  in  being  damped  down 
in  this  way,  and  only  said  sadly : — "  Possibly  another  gentle- 
man." He  continued,  in  spite  of  this  unfair  discouragement, 
to  explore  the  folio  with  his  forefinger,  now  and  then  uttering  a 
new  name  tentatively,  as  though  to  soften  the  heart  of  his 
applicant  and  bring  about  a  compromise.  But  Fred  was  un- 
yielding. He  declined  to  vary  the  identity  of  the  person  he 
sought  in  order  to  accommodate  his  description,  and  the  house- 
agent  had  to  acknowledge  the  circumstance  was  too  strong  for 
him.  "  No — no  such  a  gentleman !  "  was  his  final  verdict,  and 
he  refused  to  countenance,  as  almost  irreligious,  the  idea  that 
anyone  should  presume  to  view  The  Cedars  without  a  permit. 

"  That  proves  nothing,  Fred,"  said  Mr.  Snaith,  when  they  had 
left  the  agent's,  and  were  pausing  to  consider  the  next  step  to  be 
taken.  "  Nothing  but  that  he  didn't  come  here  first.  He  may 
have  gone  straight  to  the  house.  Even  if  he  didn't  see  over  it, 
he  may  have  gone  there.  But  if  he  went,  he  saw  it,  why 
shouldn't  he?     Caretakers  are  not  tip-proof — very  much  not." 

"  We  may  just  as  well  go  and  see,  to  make  sure,"  said  Fred. 
An  elaborate  description  of  the  whereabouts  of  the  house  was 
wasted  on  an  old  fly-driver  at  the  railway  station  opposite,  who 
listened  to  it  sceptically;  consented  to  accept  the  Job,  grudgingly; 
and  took  the  nosebag  ofl'  his  horse,  autocratically.  Then  when 
he  had  wrapped  himself  in  a  horse-rug  of  the  date  of  his  vehicle, 
he  turned  to  say  to  Fred  : — "  Any  name  to  this  here  house?  " 

"  Yes.     The  Cedars.     Big  old  house— to  let." 

"  If  you'd  'a  said  The  Cedars,  you'd  'a  saved  yourself  a  lecter. 
I  wasn't  brought  up  to  talkin',  myself." 

"  But  you  know  the  house  ?  " 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  63 

"  I  ought  to  it.  I  was  as  good  as  born  there.  Anyways,  my 
father  died  there,  and  that  runs  us  werry  close." 

A  more  liberal  education — so  Fred  thought — might  have 
spoiled  this  man,  whose  delicate  sense  of  an  antithesis  was  a 
thing  to  cultivate.  He  ventured  on  a  surmise.  Was  the  nativity 
of  the  speaker  by  any  chance  somewhere  in  the  near  neighbour- 
hood? No, — not  to  say  near.  It  was,  in  fact,  if  you  went  in 
for  being  particular,  at  Basingstoke.  But  a  party  being  born  in 
Basingstoke  was  no  drorback  on  his  father  dying  anywhere  you 
might  name.  It  was  open  to  him  to  die  in  'Ackney,  Camberwell, 
'Oxton,  or  the  West  Ingies  if  you  come  to  that.  As  a  matter  of 
fact  this  fly-driver's  father  had  died  at  this  very  house.  The 
Cedars ;  and  there  was  no  use  saying  he  hadn't. 

Mr.  Snaith  showed  an  interest  in  this  man.  "  I  like  the  old 
cock,"  said  he,  sotto  voce,  to  Fred,  "  because  he's  so  combative. 
What  would  he  say  if  he  knew  how  particular  we  have  to  go  in 
for  being  in  our  profession?  Try  and  get  out  of  him  what  was 
his  father's  status  or  capacity  at  The  Cedars.  He  wasn't  a 
patient — I'm  clear  about  that.  .  .  .  ^Vhy?  because  patients  at 
private  asylums  like  this  belong  to  the  Better  Sort.  I  don't 
suppose  this  man's  father  had  property." 

"  I  hope  he  wasn't  a  patient,  because  I  can't  ask  if  he  was," 
said  Fred.  He  decided  on  finding  some  elliptical  form  of 
expression,  to  deprive  his  enquiry  of  any  invidious  character. 
He  addressed  the  native  of  Basingstoke  as  soon  as  the  latter  had 
succeeded  in  reaching  the  person  of  an  invisible  boy,  who  was 
hanging  on  behind,  with  his  whip-lash,  and  had  disconnected 
him  effectually.  "  I've  been  told  the  house  belonged  to  a  cele- 
brated doctor,  who  took  in  nerve-cases.  Your  father  wasn't  a 
nerve-case,  I  suppose  ?  " 

"  Not  he !  He  knoo  better.  His  horfice  was  to  look  after 
these  here  nerve-cases.  Only  that  warn't  the  name  he  called  'em 
by.  Looneys  was  what  he  put  it  at,  and  I've  an  idea  he  was 
right,  myself.     He  used  to  give  'em  treatment." 

"  What  sort  of  treatment  ?  " 

"  Toko,  I  reckon.  In  course  he  gave  'em  what-for,  to  recollect 
him  by,  when  they  got  houtrageous.  But  this  here  treatment 
was  reg'lar  downright  Science,  and  no  'umbug.  He  wrote  a 
parmphlet.  Dr.  Aytcholt  did   ..." 

"  Was  that  his  name?     Say  it  again." 

"Haytch.  Holt.  Got  it?  .  .  .  Well,  this  here  parmphlet 
was  consarnin'  of  The  Use  of  Anti-Irritants  in  Mental  Cases. 
Some  on  'em  would  'a  made  you  larf." 


64  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

"  \^niieh?     Tell  us  cabout  the  Anti-Irritants." 

"  Well — there  was  the  Mutule  Aggerawation  Treatment.  For 
to  perdoose  the  wery  maximum  of  hirritation  and  bring  it  out 
like.     Like  a  hee-ruption." 

"  How  did  he  do  it?     It  must  have  been  fun." 

"  That's  accordin'  as  you  look  at  it.  I  can  tell  you  how  he 
done  it.  He  took  a  couple  of  extra-violent  patients,  and  put  'em 
in  adjinin'  apartments  with  a  winder  between,  plate  glass  a 
hinch  thick  it  was,  so  they  could  see  each  other  but  not  hear 
a  sound.  Then  each  o'  these  here  two  violent  patients,  ye  see, 
took  it  the  other  was  a  kicking  of  him^  and  flowed  at  him  in 
pursooancc  of  the  idea,  and  hit  hisself  against  the  glarst  of  the 
winder.  Good  job  there  was  no  neighbours  handy  in  them 
days !  " 

"  Because  of  the  noise.  I  see.  But  was  the  treatment  a 
success?  " 

"■  Warn't  it  ? — if  the  doctor  warn't  a  liar.  All  the  patients 
was  completely  cured,  barring  one  who  killed  hisself  against  the 
jrlarst.  Soo-icide  while  of  unsound  mind  was  the  werdict. 
Because  the  doctor  he  p'inted  out  that  the  treatment  was 
Scientific." 

The  fares  were  rather  sorry  the  journey  was  so  short,  as 
further  facts  might  have  come  to  light  concerning  the  cure  of 
insanity  by  Dr.  Aytcholt.  But  they  had  arrived  at  the  desolation 
that  was  ripe  for  building,  and  there  was  the  house,  and  there 
the  trees  it  took  its  name  from.  The  old  deaf  woman  Avas  at  the 
gate,  looking  up  and  down  the  road  with  a  jug  in  her  hand.  A 
vanishing  potboy,  who  could  whistle  through  his  front  teeth,  was 
departing,  and  the  old  husband  was  visible  at  the  side  door  of 
the  house,  at  the  end  of  the  gravel  pathway.  When  he  saw 
the  visitors,  he  turned  his  back  and  disappeared. 

The  old  woman  did  not  seem  very  communicative,  when  Fred 
had  stated  the  object  of  his  visit.  Perhaps  he  was  in  too  great 
a  hurry  with  it,  and  that  made  her  "  suspicious."  Persons  of 
her  sort  require  delicate  handling.  "Old  gentleman?  No! — 
we  don't  have  no  old  gentlemen  come  here,  or  very  seldom." 

"  That's  absurd,"  said  Fred  in  an  undertone  to  his  friend. 
"  As  if  people  looking  over  premises  went  by  ages  and  sexes !  " 
"  She  has  had  an  old  gentleman  here,  or  she  wouldn't  have 
said  she  hadn't,"  said  Mr.  Snaith,  astutely. 

'*  Right  you  are,  Charley  !  Nothing  like  the  legal  mind,  after 
all !  .  .  .  Look  here,  missus !  You  scrape  your  intelligence 
together.  .    .    .   Oh,  can't  you  hear  as  loud  as  that?     Then  I 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  65 

must  sho*ut  louder.  ...  He  had  on  a  parson's  costume,  this 
old  gentleman,  and  it  was  Saturday  fortnight,  about  four  in 
the  afternoon." 

"  "What  did  you  say  he  had  on  ?  " 

"  A  parson's  costume." 

"What's  that?'"' 

"  A  clergyman's  dress." 

Xow,  by  this  time  Mrs.  Grewbeer  had  collected  herself,  and 
had  also  recognised  Fred  as  a  previous  visitor.  She  saw  her 
way  to  surrendering  her  little  attitude  of  reserve — which  may 
have  been  produced  by  Fred's  evident  anxiety  to  get  an  answer — 
and  at  the  same  time  of  imputing  obscurity,  a  great  delight  with 
the  uncultured,  as  well  as  the  cultured,  mind.  Said  she : — 
"  There  now,  if  you'd  'a  said  he  was  dressed  like  a  clergyman, 
then  I  should  have  knowed."  But  having  made  this  admission, 
she  was  seized  with  a  perverse  desire  to  vary  the  day.  Yainly 
did  Fred  say  that  if  she  was  referring  to  his  old  gentleman,  it 
must  be  Saturday  fortnight ;  on  no  other  day  in  the  calendar 
was  he  a  human  possibility.  The  reply  was : — "  I  think  you'll 
find  you're  mistook,  but  my  old  man  he'll  know." 

"  Let  her  have  her  own  way,  Fred,"  said  Mr.  Snaith.  "  Whar 
does  it  matter  ?  "  And  they  followed  the  old  woman  to  the 
house. 

Referred  to  for  confirmation,  Mr.  Grewbeer  was  disappointing. 
He  declined  to  commit  himself  to  anything.  "  Ye  see,  gentle- 
men," said  he.  "  I  never  see  the  party.  I  only  heerd  tell  ol" 
him  next  day.  He  was  here  when  I  come,  I  take  it,  but  I  never 
set  eyes  on  him  myself.  I  wasn't  by  way  of  taking  notice  much, 
by  token  I'd  met  with  an  accident,  being  fetched  home  in  a 
gentleman's  cart,  who's  in  the  coal  and  potato  line.  My  old 
woman  she  see  the  party,  and  what  she  can't  tell  you,  there's 
no  use  asking." 

"But  you  know  which  day  it  was,  as  you  had  an  accident. 
That's  something  to  recollect  by."  But  Mr.  Grewbeer  seemed 
to  evade  admission  that  it  was  Saturday,  no  doubt  disliking  any- 
thing that  threw  a  light  on  the  nature  of  his  accident.  He 
conceded  the  point,  however,  indirectly.  He  couldn't  be  par- 
ticular to  the  exact  day,  but  next  day  was  Sunda}',  if  you  came 
to  that. 

"  As  we  do  come  to  that,  Charley,"  said  Fred,  "  it  must  have 
been  Saturday.  Now  what  I  want  to  find  out  is,  which  way  did 
my  uncle  go  wAe?!  he  left   ..." 

"  Stop  a  bit,  Fred.     Let  me  do  the  interrogation.     And  don't 


€6  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

yon  bo  in  too  great  a  hurry.  Let's  hear  the  good  woman." 
And  tlien  Mr.  Snaith  "  elicited/'  in  approved  style,  that  the  ^ 
clerical  gentleman  had  come  in  a  four-wheel  cab,  which  he  dis- 
missed, and  had  been  admitted  to  see  the  house.  At  this  point 
the  old  woman  become  suddenly  communicative,  having  lighted 
on  a  rich  vein  of  irrelevant  matter,  and  insisted  on  giving  the 
fullest  particulars  of  everything  her  hearers  did  not  want  to 
know.  Fred  showed  impatience,  but  his  friend  said  sotto 
voce: — "Bottle  up,,  Frederic:  she'll  tell  us  more  if  we  give  her 
her  head." 

Carefully  recalled  to  the  point  more  than  once,  Mrs.  Grewbecr 
was  induced  to  admit  that  she  had  let  Dr.  Carteret  in  through 
the  front  door,  her  introduction  of  him  to  each  room  of  the 
house  in  turn,  his  dissatisfaction  with  them,  not  without  dra- 
matic reference  to  his  condemnations — in  which  Fred  could 
recognise  his  uncle's  identity, — and  finally  the  fact  that  she 
had  not  seen  his  departure  from  the  house,  being  called  away. 
Here  she  showed  a  strong  tendency  to  dwell  upon  the  treatment 
of  wounds  and  bruises,  and  to  leave  her  visitor  unaccounted  for. 
Fred's  impatience  got  the  better  of  him,  and  made  him  interpose 
on  this. 

"Yes — but  what  we  want  to  know  is,  which  way  did  he  go? 
Back  to  the  station,  or  .  .  .  ?  "  He  stopped  at  a  glance  from 
his  friend,  which  he  knew  meant : — "  Don't  suggest !  " 

"  I  never  see  no  more  of  him." 

"  Do  you  mean  that  when  you  went  to  look  for  him  you 
couldn't  find  him  ?  "  Xow  the  story  knows  that  the  old  woman 
did  not  go  back,  and  practically  forgot  all  about  her  visitor. 

"  I  never  went  to  look  for  him  till  he  wasn't  there,  next  day. 
I'd  my  hands  full,  and  plenty  to  see  to,  without  showing  parties 
out.  Lard ! — he'd  only  got  to  stand  the  door  open  and  walk 
through  the  front  gate." 

"Did  nobody  see  him  go?  That's  what  I  want  to  get  at?" 
This  questioning  was  of  course  Fred's,  and  showed  impatience. 

Old  Grewbeer,  having  been  drunk,  and  knowing  it,  was  at 
some  disadvantage  in  taking  the  tone  of  superiority  to  feminine 
weakness  of  Judgment  which  he  would  have  affected  another 
time,  as  a  matter  of  course.  But  he  felt  that  a  hint  in  this 
direction  would  not  be  misplaced.  "'  Ye  see,  master,"  said  he, 
in  confidence  to  Fred ;  "  the  missus  was  a  bit  upset.  That's 
what  she  was.  Females  is.  .But  I  tell  ye  this  much,  for  all  I 
was  knocked  a  bit  silly  by  this  here  mishap  o'  mine,  that  young 
Pritchett,  the  son  of  the  party  I  named  to  you  just  now,  he  was 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  6T 

out  at  that  there  front  gate,  a  seein'  to  the  'orse,  and  he  see 
the  old  gentleman  come  out,  and  walk  away  towards  Wimbledon." 

"  AMiat's  that  3'ou're  a  sayin',  Grewbeer  ?  "  The  old  woman 
interrupted  him  tartly,  whereupon  he  repeated  this  little  effort 
of  fiction,  louder.  "  I  thought  you  said  young  Pritchett  said  he 
see  no  one." 

"  That's  as  may  be,"  was  the  reply.  "  But  I  said  he  was  a 
young  liar.  And  a  young  liar  he  is.  ^^^l3^ — in  course  he  saw 
the  gentleman  come  out,  'cos  he  must  have  come  out.  And 
where  would  you  expect  him  to  go,  barring  the  station  ?  T'other 
road  don't  lead  nowhere,  not  even  to  the  moon." 

"  You  now  perceive,  Frederic — I  hope — the  difficulties  that 
beset  the  collection  of  evidence.  Thank  Heaven,  my  friend,  that 
you  are  not  a  lawyer."  Mr.  Snaith  followed  this  up  by  remark- 
ing that  Mr.  Grewbeer  had  imputed  to  an  habitual  liar  the 
statement  that  he  would  have  made,  had  he  been  truthful  in 
accordance  with  his — Mr.  Grewbeer's — own  conceptions  of  what 
"  must  have  been  "  the  truth. 

"  Well  then,"  said  Fred,  "  the  long  and  short  of  it  is,  that  no 
one  here  saw  my  uncle  go,  whatever  Pritchett  Junior  says  he 
did  or  didn't  see." 

"  He  says  he  didn't,"  said  the  old  man  doggedly.  "  And  bein' 
a  liar  by  natwr' — and  all  boys  is  as  ever  I  had  to  do  with — you 
may  take  it  from  me  he  did.     I  can't  say  no  fairer  than  that." 

"  I'm  afraid,  Charley,"  said  Fred,  "  the  obstacles  to  the  col- 
lection of  evidence  are  so  strong  in  this  quarter  that — well ! — 
we  shan't  get  at  anything  worth  having.  He  came  here  though ; 
that's  something." 

"  I  expect  the  old  chap  may  be  right,  though  he's  a  fool." 
Short  of  whispering,  side-speech  in  confidence  did  not  reach  its 
subject,  so  Mr.  Grewbeer  remained  unconscious  of  this  descrip- 
tion of  him.  "  Your  uncle  came  here,  and  walked  away  to 
Wimbledon.  We'll  see  the  station  master.  ...  Be  easy,  old 
chap! — we  shall  solve  the  mystery — most  likely  find  a  letter  when 
we  get  back.  They'll  have  heard  from  him  at  the  school.  He'll 
be  all  right."  But  Fred  looked  very  unsettled,  for  he  knew  his 
friend  would  affect  confidence,  however  little  he  felt  it. 

Being  here,  would  it  not  be  as  well  to  take  another  look  round 
the  house?  It  was  Mr.  Snaith's  suggestion,  made  with  an  idea 
of  diverting  his  friend's  mind  from  an  uneasiness  he  thought 
exaggeratecl.  It  was  very  effective,  as  Fred  quite  became  him- 
self again  over  the  new  entrance  lobby,  rendered  necessary  by 
the  proposed  bisection  of  the  house.     It  was  to  be  made  by  throw- 


68  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

ing  a  small  room  into  the  passage  from  which  rose  the  present 
back-staircase.  The  room  so  thrown  was  to  recover  its  footing 
and  do  duty  as  a  spacious  entrance  hall,  having  led  a  humble 
life  as  a  sort  of  pantry  in  past  ages.  But  the  transformation 
of  the  stairs  was  the  thing  to  look  forward  to. 

"  I  tell  you  what,  Charley,  if  you  have  this  half,  I  shall  envy 
you  your  stairs.  Look  at  that  balustrade !  Did  anyone  ever 
see  such  a  finial  as  this  on  the  corner  post?  " 

"  Very  good,  old  chap !  You  shall  have  this  side.  I'll  take 
t'other.     Subject,  of  course !  " 

"Subject  to  what?" 

"  Subject  to  my  young  woman,  of  course — Lucy.  She'll  have 
to  go  up  and  down  stairs — up  and  down  those  very  stairs.  Or 
the  other  ones,  as  may  be.  I  say,  Fred,  what  a  lark  it  will 
be!" 

All  of  us  have  an  undercurrent  self,  that  we  have  to  ignore 
very  often ;  because,  if  it  got  the  bit  in  its  teeth,  it  would  put  us 
in  such  an  absurdly  false  position.  It  is  that  self  whose  in- 
tensely cryptic  cliaracter — whose  invisibility,  inaudibility,  intan- 
gibility— is  so  often  a  source  of  satisfaction  to  us.  How  often 
has  each  of  us  said  to  himself — his  everyday  self,  just  below  the 
surface : — "  Thank  God  that  you  and  I  have  this  mischief-maker 
well  in  hand,  and  can  ignore  him !  Let's !  "  How  often  has 
this  everyday  self  exclaimed  thereon,  with  marked  indignation : — 
"  What — that  impostor  again !  Crush  him,  silence  him,  stamp 
him  out !  Or,  as  you  can't  do  that,  at  least  cultivate — with  me 
— a  disbelief  in  his  existence.  Shut  the  door  of  his  cellar,  and 
forget  him.  All  the  visitors  to  Our  house  are  shown  into  the 
drawing-room.  No  one  ever  explores  the  back-yard  or  the  base- 
ment." And  you  have  slapped  your  everyday  self  on  the  back, 
and  said — somewhat  on  the  lines  of  Little  Jack  Horner — what  a 
good,  upright,  honest,  wholesome-minded  fellow  he  was ! 

It  was  that  undercurrent  self,  this  tale  suspects,  to  which  Frcd 
Carteret  said  at  this  moment : — "  I  hope  this  ]\Iiss  Hinchliffe — 
Lucy,  h'm  ! — doesn't  mean  to  be  so  confoundedly  pretty  when  slie's 
going  up  and  down  those  very  stairs."  x\nd  to  this  his  every- 
day self  replied : — "  Pooh — rui)bish  !  Wait  till  you  see  her  again, 
and  yoii  will  see  that  she  is  mere  dead-sea  fruit  compared  to  your 
Cintra.  Wait  till  you  see  them  together,  anyhow!"  ^Vhere- 
upon  Fred  went  through  the  form  of  perceiving  that  it  was  his 
truer  self  that  spoke. 

All  this  is  an  attempt  at  analysing  the  protoplasm  of  Fred's 
mind  during  the  three  seconds,  at  most,  that  passed  betv/een 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  69 

his  friend's  apostrophe  about  the  propitious  future,  and  his 
reply: — "Won't  it?  Xow  suppose  we  have  a  quiet  run  over  the 
house  and  get  some  measurements  .  .  .  Oh  yes ! — I've  got  my 
little  foot-rule.     J\ly  dear  boy,  I  never  move  without  it." 

They  walked  about  the  empty  rooms,  shadowed  by  ]\Irs.  Grew- 
beer  Avith  keys,  in  her  character  of  caretaker.  Wbat  she  was 
protecting,  and  against  what,  was  not  clear.  But  it  was  tacitly 
admitted  that  something  would  have  gone  wrong,  some  un- 
pardonable neglect  of  her  pledges  to  that  agency  would  have 
been  committed,  if  she  had  not  kept  a  watchful  eye  on  Fred's 
measurements,  and  rigidly  checked  ]\Ir.  Snaith's  entries  in  his 
pocket-book,  which  v/ere  to  be  the  basis  of  a  rough  sketch.-plan 
of  the  requisite  alterations.  Needless  to  say,  Fred  conceived 
himself  competent  to  assume  the  character  of  an  architect,  on 
occasion  shown.  Indeed,  it  was  only  modesty  thrown  in,  gratis, 
that  induced  him  to  say,  at  times,  that  of  course  the  builder 
would  have  to  make  a  working-drawing  of  this  or  that. 

Mrs.  Grewbeer,  however,  did  not  coiitribute  speech  to  this 
forecasting  of  modifications  in  the  house.  She  ke])t  an  oblique 
eye  askant,  like  that  of  the  little  pig  Horace  sacrificed,  on  the 
actions  of  her  two  visitors,  and  seemed  to  be  assuming  they  were 
machinations  till  the  contrary  was  proved.  If  a  semblance  can 
be  compounded  from  that  of  a  Eed  Indian  waiting  to  scalp  a 
victim;  a  pew-opener  waiting  to  lock  up,  after  showing  you  an 
interesting  church ;  and  perhaps  a  touch  of  the  mute  who  occurs 
on  your  doorstep  after  your  decease,  you  may  safely  ascribe 
that  semblance  to  Mrs.  Grewbeer. 

"  Galoptious  room  for  a  dance,  this,  Fred!"  said  Mr.  Snaith 
in  the  large  drawing-room  five  windows  Ions;.  "  Lucv  will  have 
to  borrow  it  if  it's  yours,  and  your  missus  will  have  to  borrovr 
it  if  it's  ours." 

"  We  shan't  quarrel  over  that,  Charley,"  said  Fred,  pretending 
to  be  the  older  and  wiser  of  the  two.  "  Seventeen-foot-nine 
inches  exactly  from  the  recess  of  the  window."  That  was  the 
depth  of  the  room.  Mr.  Snaith  made  an  entry,  and  Mrs.  Grew- 
beer's  appearance  was  of  disbelief  in  its  accuracy. 

There  was  a  kind  of  pleasure  in  this  methodical  collection  of 
data;  which,  with  the  natural  builder's  estimate  to  follow,  con- 
stituted a  sort  of  official  oblivion  of  every  contemporary  un- 
pleasantness; chiefly  of  course  the  painful  doubt  about  the 
whereabouts  of  the  all-powerful  Tnistee,  without  wliose  signature 
every  scheme  must  be  abortive.  It  was  as  though  each  of  the 
two  young  men  said  to  the  other : — "  Please  don't  suppose  that  I 


70  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

am  the  least  uneasy  about  the  absentee.  He  is  going  to  turn  up 
all  right.  That's  arranged."  Each  of  them,  to  convince  the 
other,  made  a  parade  of  deliberation  over  these  preliminary- 
notes  ;  and  only  laid  himself  open  to  suspicion  by  overdoing  the 
assumption  that  the  destiny  of  the  premises  was  as  good  as 
settled. 

"  And  what  did  the  old  gentleman  say  about  this  room  ?  "  said 
Fred,  suddenly  taking  Mrs.  Grewbeer  into  the  confidence  of  the 
discussion,  as  she  prepared  to  "  shetter  to  the  window  now  you 
had  seen  all  you  wanted  to."  These  were  her  own  words.  But 
she  did  not  hear  the  question,  or  she  would  not  have  shouted 
"  Hay  ? "  with  the  undisguised  violence  of  a  high  explosive. 
Fred  repeated  his  words  in  short  articulate  groups. 

"  Ho — the  old  clargyman !  Somothin'  I  didn't  ketch.  That's 
what  lie  said.  .  .  .  "\^Tiat  was  my  idear  what  he  said,  do  3^ou 
mean?  He  warn't  satisfied.  Can't  tell  you  no  more.  I  didn't 
arst  him  what  he  said.  .  .  .  Ah,  yes, — he'd  'a  told  me  fast 
enough  if  I'd  'a  arsted  him.     But  I  didn't  arst  him." 

"  You  would  not  presume  on  your  position,  Mrs.  Grewbeer. 
Was  that  it?"  Mr.  Snaith  repented  of  this  word  by  the  way, 
for  the  old  woman  insisted  on  knowing  what  the  other  gentle- 
man was  a  saying  of,  and  received  a  revised  version  with  sus- 
picion. This,  however,  was  soothed,  and  she  said : — "  Ho  3^es — I 
know  my  place,  if  that's  what  you  mean.  But  he  warn't  satis- 
fied, by  reason  of  the  size  of  it." 

"  Xot  room  enough  ? "  A  joint-stock  question,  from  both, 
which  has  to  be  repeated  be3'ond  the  claims  of  any  reasonable 
deafness. 

However,  there  was  a  ground  for  this.  "  Lard  bless  you ! " 
said  the  old  woman.  "  I  didn't  say  smallness.  I  said  size.  If 
I'd  said  smallness  now,  you  might  have  talked." 

"  She  evidently  would  take  exception  to  geometry,  over  the 
word  magnitude"  said  Mr.  Snaith,  secure  of  inaudiJDility. 

Fred  nodded  assent.  "  But  it's  not  such  a  very  big  room, 
Charley,"  said  he.     "  Only  twenty-eight  by  seventeen !  " 

They  went  room  by  room  over  all  the  upper  stories,  though 
each  was  waiting  to  welcome  any  readiness  on  the  other's  part 
to  get  back  to  the  railway  station  and  interview  an  imaginary 
station  master  with  a  keen  memory.  But  inner  conscience  de- 
ciding that  it  was  desirable  to  avoid  showing  anything  but  pro- 
found indifference,  they  overhauled  the  house  with  a  thorough- 
ness it  might  have  waited  for  in  vain  under  other  circumstances. 
In  time,  however,  every  dimension  was  on  record  in  Mr.  Snaith's 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  71 

book,  and  they  came  down  the  main  stairway  qualified  to  suggest 
drastic  alterations  in  the  upper  floors. 

''  ISTow,  don't  you  he  in  any  hurry,  Charley.  The  cab  will 
wait.  It's  that  sort  of  cab.  I  want  to  take  a  good  look  at  that 
new  square  room,  because  I've  got  an  idea." 

"  Oh  ah,  yes — in  the  new  part  of  the  house.  We  mustn't  for- 
get that.  Let's  see ! — that's  the  square  room  over  by  the  .  ,  . 
over  by  the   ..." 

"  Over  by  the  long  passage  into  the  greenhouse.  Gee-up ! 
Cut  along !  " 

"  Do  not  be  impatient,  Frederic.  The  cab,  as  you  say,  will 
wait.     How  about  the  dimensions  of  this  room  ?  " 

"  Corresponds  with  the  one  on  the  other  side.     Cut  along !  " 

Mr.  Snaith  complied  with  the  spirit  of  this  direction,  and 
they  arrived  at  the  door  of  the  square  room.  The  lock  wanted 
oil — wouldn't  act,  and  provoked  comment.  A\^iile  jMrs.  Grew- 
beer  reasoned  with  it,  the  young  men  went  three  paces  and  stood 
where  the  Eev.  Dr.  Carteret  had  stood  when  last  seen. 

"  This  passage  ends  in  the  green'us,  Frederic.  You  don't 
want  the  dimensions  of  the  green'us.     You  know  you  don't." 

"  I  know  nothing  of  the  sort,  Charley.  I  know  I  do.  You 
lawyer  chaps  always  want  to  do  everything  by  halves.  Wait  till 
you're  an  engineer — that'll  make  you  sit  up.  .  .  .  jSTo — the 
door  isn't  shut.  It's  open.  May  as  well  have  a  look  round !  " 
This  was  the  greenhouse  door,  which  had  been  found  unexpect- 
edly open  by  the  caretakers  when  last  examined,  and  left  un- 
locked when  the  substantial  closure  of  the  further  door  into  the 
warden  had  been  established. 

"  I  don't  see  much  here,"  said  Fred,  after  a  glance  round. 
"  Let's  go  back  to  the  square  room  and  settle  that."  So  they 
went  back. 

Now,  it  chanced  that  the  lawyer-chap,  perhaps  to  prove  that 
his  profession  had  been  unjustly  censured,  delaj^ed  a  little  to 
make  sure  that  that  door  was  properly  secured,  so  far  as  cir- 
cumstances permitted.  When  he  liad  done  so  he  followed  his 
friend,  but  was  met  by  him  returning,  as  though  to  look  for 
him,  at  the  corner  of  the  passage. 

"  WTiat  made  you  sing  out  ?  "  said  Fred. 

"  I  didn't  sing  out." 

"  Well — I  heard  you  pretty  plain.  '  Come  back,  Fred  ! '"  If 
this  had  implied  merely  that  the  speaker  had  thought  he  heard 
speech  but  must  have  been  mistaken,  probably  his  hearer's  sur- 
prise would  have  stopped  short  of  a  shrug.     Mr.  Snaith's  went 


72  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

beyond  shrug-point.  "  I  say,  Fred,"  said  he,  "  don't  go  dotty, 
that's  a  good  feller!  Consider  Miss  Fraser.  1  never  sang  out 
'  Come  back,  Fred ! ' " 

"You  never  sang  out  'Come  back,  Fred!'  Wliy — I  lieard 
you." 

"  I  say,  Frederic,  this  is  getting  alarmin'.  I  tell  you  what  it 
is,  old  chap.  It's  the  looneys.  It's  the  atmosphere  of  the 
asylum." 

"  Well — you  may  ehalT !  But  I  did  hear  you.  '  Come  back, 
Fred.'  Just  like  that !  "  He  imitates  the  tone  of  the  words 
he  ascribes  to  his  friend. 

"  ^^^lat — like  a  drill-sergeant?  I  never  speak  like  a  drill- 
sergeant.  It's  not  professional.  Shut  up  rot,  dear  boy,  and 
come  and  measure  walls  and  chimley-places.     Come  along!  " 

"  I  tell  you  what,  Charley,"  says  Fred,  still  puzzled,  "  It's 
a  parrot.  There's  a  parrot  somewhere.  They'll  pick  up  a  phrase 
and  repeat  it,  so  that  it  sounds  like  your  own  voice.  Depend  on 
it — it's  a  parrot." 

"  Frederic,  your  theory  won't  hold  water.  A  parrot  will  not 
utter  what  he  does  not  know,  and  when  have  I  said  *  Come  back, 
Fred'  in  the  hearing  of  a  parrot?  Or  anywhere  else,  for  that 
matter  !     Shut  up — you  and  your  parrot !  " 

But  Fred  will  have  that  voice  accounted  for,  and  clings  to 
his  parrot.  The  old  woman,  influenced  maybe  by  the  perplexity 
visible  on  his  face,  and  tracing  it  to  his  friend's  words,  asks : — 
"  What  is  the  gentleman  saying,  mister  ?  " 

"  Says  you  haven't  got  a  parrot." 

"  No  nearer  than  my  kitchen.     Does  he  want  a  carrot  ?  " 

"  Not  carrot — parrot.  Par-rot !  He  says  you  don't  keep 
one." 

"  Xo  more  I  don't.  I  ain't  partial  to  birds."  But  her 
curiosity  seems  aroused,  for  she  goes  on  to  say : — "  What  put 
the  gentleman  onto  parrots?"  Shouting  details  into  deaf  ears 
is  not  inviting,  but  for  all  that  Fred  seems  to  find  it  a  satis- 
faction to  make  some  sort  of  reply,  rough-sketching  the  incident. 
To  the  surprise  of  both,  the  old  woman  lays  claim  to  having 
heard  "  a  soomat "  and,  being  pressed  to  be  more  explicit,  de- 
scribes the  soomat  by  admitting  that  she  had  thought  the  young 
gentleman  a  bit  hasty-tempered.  For  she  too  had  supposed  Mr. 
Snaith  to  be  the  speaker.  He  seems  inclined  to  become  a  dis- 
ciple of  Mr.  Grewbeer's  school  of  Logic,  and  to  claim  audibility 
by  a  stone-deaf  person  as  a  direct  proof  that  nothing  has  ever 
been  uttered.     Fred  ascribes  this  to  his  legal  mind,  and  they 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  73 

discuss  the  nature  of  evidence  as  he  takes  his  last  measurements. 
But  nothing  casts  light  upon  the  sound  he  mistook  for  his 
friend's  voice.  He  admits,  however,  that  he  did  not  identify  it 
as  his  by  the  sound,  but  by  the  impossibility  of  its  being  any- 
one else's. 

Then  they  depart,  both  being  really  glad  to  do  so  now  that 
deliberation  has  been  emphasized  sufficiently. 

Fred's  sanguine  disposition  had,  by  the  time  they  got  back  to 
the  railway  station,  filled  his  mind  with  the  image  of  an  im- 
probable station  master,  able  to  remember  all  passengers  for  a 
month  past.  He  was  disillusioned,  on  enquiring  of  the  actual 
functionary  whether  he  had  chanced  to  notice,  last  Saturday 
week,  an  impressive  ecclesiastic  who  booked  for  Exeter,  by  the 
five  o'clock  from  Waterloo.  The  momentary  hope  held  out  by 
the  enquiry: — "■  AYhat  class?'-' — which  seemed  to  show  a  con- 
scientious keenness  for  accuracy — was  damped  by  the  sequel : — 
"  No — I  couldn't  speak  to  anyone  in  particular,  short  of 
Bishops.  You  can't  make  it  a  Bishop,  I  suppose?"  This  was 
impossible,  and  further  enquiry  showed  that  the  inferior  clergy 
would  come  fifty  in  a  lump,  like  aunts  on  an  aunt-hill.  No — 
that  functionary  could  supply  no  information,  and  felt  that 
candour  had  better  say  so  at  once,  and  be  done  with  it.  His 
abilities  did  not  lie  in  the  direction  of  cooking  up,  and  where 
would  be  the  object  of  it,  if  they  did?  Misinformation  could 
be  made  no  use  of,  to  any  good  purpose;  and  a  humane  dis- 
position would  keep  in  check  the  propensity  to  tell  unprovoked 
lies  common  to  all  humanity. 

"■  Anyhow,"  said  ]\Ir.  Snaith  consolatoril}^,  as  they  rode  back 
to  Waterloo,  "  that's  better  than  remembering  distinctly  that  no 
such  person  has  ever  been  at  the  station.  Never  mind,  Fred! 
Ten  to  one  when  you  get  back  you'll  find  your  mother  has  had 
a  letter.  The  Divine  Ordainer  of  Events  enjoys  nothing  better 
than  upsetting  one's  equilibrium,  and  then  deriding  one  for  be- 
ing in  a  fuss." 


CHAPTER  VII 

"  What  a  very  extraordinary  thing ! "  said  Cintra  Fraser  to 
her  sister  Nancy,  reading  letters  at  breakfast  two  mornings  later. 
Only  she  did  not  say  what  the  extraordinary  thing  was,  but  went 
on  reading,  with  an  animated  face,  in  which  her  sister's  e3fc, 
waiting  for  further  ^particulars,  could  detect  as  much  anxiety 
as  amusement. 

"  Don't  hurry !  "  said  Nancy,  pouring  coffee.  Cintra  went  on 
to  the  next  page,  and  said : — "  In  a  minute." 

A  very  small  boy,  who  gave  the  impression  that  he  was  over- 
fed, but  too  elastic  to  burst,  laid  down  conditions  under  which 
he  would  accept  a  change  of  diet.  "  If  I  put'th  in  the  thooger 
mythelf,"  he  said. 

"  Very  well,"  said  Nancy.  "  You  shall  have  bread-and-milk 
instead  of  porridge,  and  shall  put  in  the  sugar  yourself."  This 
was  treachery,  because  the  young  lady  knew  perfectly  well  that 
her  half-brother  regarded  free  access  to  the  sugar-basin  as  part 
of  the  treaty.  Her  apology  to  her  conscience  was  sufficient.  He 
was  a  Young  Turk. 

Cintra  read  on  a  page  or  two.  Then  the  interest  seemed  to 
flag,  and  she  laid  the  letter  aside,  and  asked  how  many  spoonfuls 
her  sister  had  put  in  the  teapot.  Being  answered : — "  Plenty," 
she  seemed  to  doubt  her  informant ;  for  she  said : — "  Very  well 
then,  I  shall  wait,  or  it  will  be  hot  water."  Then  waiting,  she 
harked  back  to  her  first  remark.  "  Well — it  really  is  very 
extraordinary.     Fred's  uncle  has  vanished." 

"  Wliile  they  were  looking  at  him?  "  , 

"  Nonsense,  Nancy,  you  know  I  don't  mean  that." 

"  How  was  I  to  know  ?  " 

"  Don't  be  a  goose.  Now  you  may  pour  my  tea.  Only  stir  it. 
Of  course  Dr.  Carteret's  gone  somewhere,  only  it  is  very  odd  that 
nobody  knows  where.     And  all  the  schoolboys  waiting  for  him !  " 

A  younger  brother — a  whole  brother  this  time — who  had  be- 
come far  advanced  in  breakfast  while  his  sisters  still  lingered 
on  the  outskirts,  said  in  one  sentence : — "  Won't  he  wollup  it 
into  'em  when  he  does  come  back  shouldn't  wonder  if  I  had  some 
more  bacon  after  all !  "  He  proceeded  to  commandeer  the  bacon 
without  any  appearance  of  wonder, 

74 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  75 

Said  Nancy: — "  ^Vhat  a  horrible  boy  you  are,  Eric!  You 
never  mean  to  say  the  arrears  mount  up  ?  " 

"The  what?" 

"  The  arrears  mount  up.     All  the  floggings  together,  in  one  ?  " 

"  Oh — I  see  what  you  mean  !  Don't  I  neither  though  !  They 
do  like  that  at  our  school,  only  it's  impositions.  One  of  our  boys 
has  twenty-four  thousand  lines  of  the  Odyssey  to  say  before  he 
gets  off,  and  everyone  knows  there  are  not  twenty-four  thousand 
lines  in  the  Odyssey.  Young  Samuels  says  there  are,  but  he's 
an  ass." 

Nancy  ignores  the  ingenuous  youth's  prattle,  and  goes  back  to 
the  lost  thread  of  the  conversation.  '•  But  isn't  it  serious. 
Git?" 

"Isn't  what  serious?" 

"  Dr.  Carteret." 

"  His  not  turning  up  ?  Why,  no — because  how  can  anything 
have  happened  to  him?  He's  all  right.  Most  likely  he's  there 
by  now.     Is  that  papa  coming  down  ?  " 

The  story  follows  this  trivial  conversation  thus  closely  that  its 
reader  may  concept — and  that's  a  very  good  word,  whatever  he 
may  say  to  the  contrary, — what  a  slight  impression  was  pro- 
duced by  the  first  hearing  of  Dr.  Carteret's  disappearance.  One 
thing  was  the  intrinsic  impossibility  of  anything  having  hap- 
pened. Another  was  the  fact  that  he  belonged  to  a  previous 
generation,  and  was  uninteresting.  That  weighed  with  these 
girls,  at  any  rate.  It  may  be  that  Nancy  got  on  the  edge  of 
an  uneasy  feeling  about  him,  owing  to  the  fascination  Fred's 
mother  exercised  over  her.  That  enchantment  must  have  ex- 
tended to  her  dry  old  brother-in-law,  and  was  it  possible  that 
it  would  be  a  matter  of  indifference  to  her  if  he  was  run  over 
by  a  railway  train,  or  murdered  by  a  professional?  But  Cintra 
dismissed  Uncle  Drury  easily.     He  was  all  right ! ! 

Moreover,  there  was  other  matter  in  the  letter  to  think  of. 
Cintra  introduced  it  tentatively  by  saying,  in  an  unexplained 
way,  merely  the  words  "  Miss  Lucy  Hinchliffe,"  and  then  going 
on  reading  to  herself. 

"  What  about  Miss  Hinchliffe  ?  "  Nancy  asked  the  question 
sternly,  and  repeated  it  when  her  sister  ignored  it  and  went 
on  reading. . 

"  Will  we — us  two — go  to  lunch  on  Sunday  to  meet  Mr.  Snaith 
and  his  Miss  Lucy  Hinchliffe  ?     Fred  wants  to  know,  by  return." 

"Very  well,  then — say  7io!!  At  least,  you  may  go  if  you  like, 
of  course.     That's  your  own  lookout.     But  I  distinctly  wont!" 


76  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

"Oh — well! — if  you  want  to  be  disagreeable^  of  course!" 

"  I  don't  want  to  be  disagreeable.  But  I  draw  the  line  at 
Mr.  Snaith." 

Cintra  shrugged  her  shoulders,  to  express  to  the  Universe  that 
her  sister  could  scarcely  be  held  responsible  for  her  actions,  and 
that  she  herself  was  a  rare  example  of  patience  under  trials, 
especially  those  incidental  to  dealing  with  persons  of  unsound 
mind.  Presently  she  collected  herself  for  speech,  and  faced  the 
subject;  not  unconciliatorily,  but  decisively.  "  I  cannot  under- 
stand your  prejudice  against  Mr.  Snaith,  Xancy.  He  is  not 
Adonis,  I  admit.  But  so  many  men  are  not  Adonis.  Nothing 
is  more  misleading  than  externals.  And  Fred  says  there  are 
few  more  rising  men  than  Mr.  Charles  Snaith."  Cintra  felt 
that  she  had  spoken  on  behalf  of  her  lover's  friend  in  well-chosen 
language. 

It  did  not  impress  Miss  Nancy,  who  only  said  drily : — "  I'm 
glad  you  admit  that  Mr.  Snaith  is  not  Adonis,  Cit.  But,  any- 
how, I  don't  want  to  lunch  with  him;  or  his  nose;  or  his  Miss 
Lucy  Hinehliffc." 

Cintra,  going  back  on  her  letter,  was  aware  of  a  postscript 
overlooked.  "  Here's  a  message  to  you  from  Fred's  mother," 
said  she  to  her  sister.  "  She  says  do  please  come,  because  she 
wants  you  to  talk  about  serious  things  to,  while  we  chatter. 
There  now,  Nance,  you'll  have  her  all  to  yourself." 

Nancy  wavered,  and  then  made  concession.  She  wouldn't 
promise,  but  would  think  about  whether  she  would  come.  Only 
it  mu.^t  be  distinctly  on  condition  that  she  shouldn't  have  to 
speak  to  Mr.  Snaith  or  his  Miss  Hinchliffe.  And  she  would 
write  to  ]\Irs.  Carteret  explaining  that  if  she  saw  Mr.  Snaith's 
nose  at  lunch  she  would  be  unable  to  eat  anything. 

This  debate  and  decision  was  intersected  a  good  deal  by  the 
father  of  the  family,  Professor  Fraser,  who  would  meddle  with 
the  establishing  of  breakfast  on  a  tray  for  the  mamma  of  the 
small  half-brother,  who  was  an  invalid  upstairs.  He  never 
would  be  satisfied  that  proper  attention  was  being  given  to  the 
wants  of  that  excellent  lady.  Perhaps  they  were  not.  The 
Professor  had  rashly  adventured  on  secondes  noces  in  order  that 
his  little  girls  might  have  a  mamma,  and  his  little  girls  had 
grown  up,  and  were  in  revolt  against  ex  post  facto  parentage. 
Tliey  forgave  their  half-brother,  on  the  ground  that,  at  the  period 
of  his  entry  into  this  world,  he  appeared  too  young  to  be  held 
answerable  for  it.  Moreover,  whereas  in  his  very  earliest  youth 
he  struck  the  observer  as  amorphous,  purple,  and  ill-tempered. 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  77 

his  comparative  maturity  at  this  date  was  succulent  and  pulpy- 
It  was  Nancy  who  remarked  that,  bad  as  was  the  heart,  and  low 
as  were  the  morals,  of  this  Young  Turk — he  was  between  two  and 
three  at  breakfast  that  morning — you  might  wallow  in  the  back 
of  his  neck  with  advantage.  Cintra  tolerated  him  also,  on  the 
score  of  texture  and  consistency. 

Neither  of  these  young  women  extended  their  leniency  to  the 
Turk's  mother.  It  is  true  that  they  complied  with  the  Dictates 
of  Christianity,  one  of  which  is — or  may  be;  for  the  story  is 
out  of  its  depth  on  this  subject — that  you  should  send  your 
enemy  his  breakfast  on  a  tray  when  he  is  indisposed,  and  see 
that  the  toast  is  fresh  made.  But  they  disallowed  even  the  most 
formal  official  maternity  to  the  fast-breaker  in  this  case,  and 
the  Professor  had  given  up  any  attempt  to  use  the  designation 
"  your  mamma  "  in  face  of  the  severity  and  chilliness  with  which 
they  had  received  it,  shortly  before  the  date  of  this  present  writ- 
ing". In  fact,  there  was  the  unsubsided  ripple  of  a  last  night's 
ruction  on  this  very  subject  when  the  Professor  made  his  appear- 
ance at  breakfast.  He  had  to  wrestle  with  serious  difficulties 
when  he  spoke  of  his  wife  to  his  daughters,  as  there  was  abso- 
lutely no  name  to  call  her  by.  To  call  her  "  your  stepmother  "■ 
would  have  been  to  throw  up  the  sponge.  And  to  call  her  '•  Mrs. 
Pauncefote  Fraser  "  was  impossible.  He  had  only  one  resource 
to  fall  back  upon,  and  he  flew  to  it. 

"  Your-Aunt-if-you-persist-in-calling-her-so-Felicia's  breakfast, 
are  they  going  to  take  it  up  ?  Because  she's  ready  for  it.  .  .  . 
Yes — tea  and  one  egg — three  minutes  and  a  half;  not  more! 
Good-morning,  child !  "  This  was  to  Nancy,  with  whom  he  was 
never  on  very  bad  terms.  Her  kissing  him  softened  away  sur- 
viving consciousness  of  the  feud  overnight. 

Cintra  dissociated  herself  from  this  conciliatory  attitude. 
"  Yes — she  can  have  the  pot  now  as  far  as  I'm  concerned — 
Stilzchen's  mamma,  I  mean.  Why  doesn't  Fisher  bring  that 
egg?"  It  was  difficult  for  the  Professor  to  lay  hold  of  this, 
having  recognised  this  name — short  for  Rumpfelstilzchen,  the 
dwarf  in  the  German  fairy  story — as  a  fit  and  proper  name  for 
his  youngest  son,  and  there  being  no  doubt  of  his  parentage.  He 
shied  off  the  subject,  and  considered  his  own  breakfast.  Fisher 
came  with  the  egg,  and  bore  the  tray  away  to  the  unpopular 
stepmother. 

A  door  slammed  afar,  and  was  interpreted  as  that  boy  Eric, 
just  off  to  school.  His  father  remarked  that  he  would  be  late,, 
probably  truly;  and  opened  letters.     Throughout  the  whole  of 

6 


78  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

these  incidents  the  three-year-old  continued  to  tranquilly  assimi- 
late bread-and-milk  without  turning  a  hair,  or  showing  the 
slightest  disposition  to  leave  off.  Pie  illuminated  the  proceed- 
ings with  occasional  remarks,  usually  introducing  topics  of  per- 
sonal interest  quite  foreign  to  the  subjects  under  discussion. 

"  I  has  the  scrope-dish  in  my  barf,"  he  said  suddenly,  neither 
soap  nor  soap-dishes  having  been  referred  to.  No  one  paid  the 
slightest  attention.  He  turned  .to  another  matter :  "  Nurse's 
toofs  won't  boyt  scrust,  only  scrumb."  Nancy  said  that,  accord- 
ing to  her  experience,  good  little  boys  devoted  themselves  to 
eating  their  breakfasts,  and  abstaining  from  conversation  on 
abstract  subjects.  Conrad — that,  it  appeared,  was  his  name — 
seemed  to  think  the  two  things  compatible.  He  would  take  some 
strobbry  dam,  helped  wiv  the  big  spoon. 

"  V»^ell — and  what's  the  news  ?  "  said  the  little  Professor ;  as 
a  stimulus  to  interchange  of  thought,  rather  than  from  anxiety 
for  information.  "  Who's  married?  Wlio's  murdered  his  wife? 
Who's  murdered  himself?     What's  the  latest  intelligence?" 

"  Tell  him  about  your  Fred's  uncle,  Cit." 

"What — Dr.  Drury  Carteret?  He  hasn't  got  a  wife  to  mur- 
der, poor  fellow!  Perhaps  he's  going  to  be  married?  That  or 
suicide — which  is  it?" 

"  Nonsense,  Papa  ! — how  can  you  ?  Fancy  '  Uncle  Dru  '  going 
to  be  married !  "  Cintra  seems  so  amused  at  this  idea  that  she 
ignored  murder  and  suicide. 

"  Well — what  is  it,  then  ?     Have  they  made  him  a  Duke  ?  " 

"  No — guess  again  !      Go  on  guessing." 

"  Have  they  made  him  a  Marquis?" 

"  That's  silly.     Guess  reasonable  guesses !  " 

"  No,  I  can't.  Give  it  up !  What's  come  to  the  Keverend  ? 
.  .  .  Yes — another  half-cup,  only  not  too  much  milk.  And 
your  half-roll  you  haven't  devoured.  .  .  .  ^^^lat's  happened  to 
the  headmaster  ?  " 

"  He's   disappeared — vanished !   .    .    .   No — I'm   in   earnest." 

The  learned  Professor  fixed  an  astonished  eye  on  his  speaking 
daughter,  Cintra,  and  left  his  knife  at  pause  half-way  through 
the  captured  roll.  Nancy,  purveying  the  requisitioned  half-cup, 
said : — "  Bead  him  the  bit  of  Fred's  letter  with  it  in  it.  .  .  . 
There's  only  one  lump  of  sugar,  but  it's  a  big  one." 

Cintra  read : — "  '  It's  very  odd  about  Uncle  Dru — he  never 
went  to  the  school  at  all  last  Saturday  fortnight — he  went  to 
see  the  house  as  he  said  he  would,  and  went  on  to  Wimbledon — 
we  know  that — Charley  and  I  went  there  to  find  out — but  they've 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  79 

heard  nothing  of  him  at  the  school — and  it  fidgets  my  mother 
a  good  deal — with  all  these  stories  about  people  who  forget  their 
identity — I'm  not  uneasy  myself — no  more  is  Charley — but  any- 
thing of  this  sort  is  always  odd  and  uncomfortable.'  That's  all 
— all  he  says  about  his  uncle.  It  is  odd,  isn't  it?  I  suppose 
he'll  be  all  right,  somewhere  or  other." 

"  Somewhere  or  other,"  says  the  Professor.  ''  Or  somewhere 
else.     Bather  funny  though  !  " 

"  I  shall  go  to  Maida  Vale  this  afternoon,  and  see  what  I 
can  hear."  Thus  i^ancy.  And  then  her  sister  asks  her 
abruptly: — "Does  she  bother  much  about  the  old  gentleman? 
I  mean,  suppose  anything  happened?  " 

"  My  dear  Cit,  he's  her  husband's  brother,  and  just  like 
her  own." 

"  Well — I  know !  Only  one  can't  help  getting  the  idea  with 
some  people  that  they  wouldn't  cry  their  eyes  out  if   .    .    ." 

"  Oh  no — nothing  of  the  sort !  What  an  unfeeling  little  beast 
you  are !  But  there  isn't  the  slightest  reason  to  suppose  that 
anything  has  happened  to  Dr.  Carteret,  merely  because   ..." 

"=  ■\Vell — of  course  one  quite  understands  tltat."  Cintra 
quashes  every  unpropitious  contingency  with  decisive  tartness, 
and  the  Professor  embarks  upon  a  sort  of  soothing  chorus: — 
"  Oo — noo — no  !  No  necessity  to  suppose  any  such  thing  !  Peo- 
ple always  disappeared — been  at  it  ever  since  I  v/as  a  small  boy ! ! 
Always  turn  up  again — always  turn  up  again !  " 

Master  Conrad,  or  Stilzchen,  strikes  into  the  conversation  with 
the  lip  of  his  bread-and-milk  basin  in  his  mouth.  Being  in- 
structed that  this  is  not  a  courtly  practice  he  discontinues  it, 
and  pursues  the  thread  of  his  remarks  ore  rotundo,  to  the  effect 
that  his  nurse — whose  absence  for  a  holiday  seems  to  be  the 
reason  he  is  breakfasting  outside  the  nursery — has  countenanced 
his  spitting  in  the  fireplace,  under  reservations.  "  Only  not  two 
times,  nor  free  times,  nor  sisk  times,  nor  teng  times,  but  wunth," 
summarises  the  terms  of  a  treaty  which  the  public  feeling  of  his 
hearers  condemns  as  an  outrage  on  civilisation.  It  is  impressed 
upon  him  that  no  little  boy  of  a  pure  taste  and  right  feeling  ever 
spits  at  all,  in  the  fire  or  elsewhere.  He  distorts  the  conversa- 
tion to  his  own  advantage  by  a  claim  to  logical  consecutiveness 
at  variance  with  fact,  saying  as  an  irresistible  conclusion  to  these 
injunctions : — '"  Yen  you  must  dive  me  two  coyks,  wiv  jam 
insoyd." 

""What  am  I  to  say  to  Fred  about  this  Miss  Hinchliffe?  "  says 
Cintra  to  her  sister,  to  arrive  at  a  definite  arrangement. 


80  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

"  Well — I'll  come.  Only  I'm  not  to  have  to  speak  to 
Mr.  Snaith.  Remember ! "  Nancy's  voice  is  one  of  solemn 
warning. 

"  Very  well,  dear ! — you  shan't  speak  to  Mr.  Snaith.  Only 
you've  got  not  to  be  rude  to  ]\Iiss  Hinchliffe." 

"  As  if  I  didn't  know  how  to  behave  myself.  .  .  .  No,  child ! 
— you  are  not  to  have  any  more  of  anything.  You — have — had 
— your  breakfast !  Now  be  good  and  perhaps  I'll  take  you  for  a 
walk.    Oh,  you  little  ducky  I  " 

"  How  you  do  spoil  that  child,  Nancy  I  " 

"  How  did  you  find  Mrs.  Carteret,  Nancy?  As  lovely  as  ever, 
I  suppose !  " 

"  Yes — but  worried !  Worried  to  death  over  this  plaguy  old 
gentleman.  I  really  have  no  patience  with  people  who  disap- 
pear. .  .  .  Oh  yes ! — I  know.  He  may  be  dead — but  he  isn't. 
Trust  him !  "  There  are  two  schools  among  the  constituents 
of  absentees;  their  relicts,  so  to  speak.  The  one  believes  them 
maimed  or  dead  until  they  come  galumphing  home:  the  other 
pictures  them  in  the  enjoyment  of  robust  health  and  congenial 
society,  until  their  fragments  are  carried  up  to  the  front  door, 
held  precariously  together  by  first-aid  bandages.  Nancy  be- 
longed to  the  latter  persuasion. 

'•  I  wonder  what  has  become  of  him?" 

"  I  shouldn't  if  I  were  you.  It's  very  easy.  He  had  -to  go 
away  somewhere  and  wrote  to  say  so,  and  it  never  reached. 
Good  gracious  me ! — don't  letters  get  delivered  at  the  wrong 
house  and  the  people  never  give  them  back  to  the  postman?" 

"Yes— but  a  fortnight!" 

"  A  fortnight's  nothing !  Didn't  a  letter  of  Papa's  go  to  the 
Filipopulos'  down  the  road  and  they  waited  six  weeks  for  us  to 
send  for  it?  And  didn't  that  nice  old  Mr.  Filipopulo  bring  it 
to  us  himself  at  last  and  it  was  only  Coals — Lowest  Summer 
Prices?  That's  how  people  do.  They'll  have  heard  when  v^^e 
go  on  Sunday.     Y'ou'll  see !  " 

This  fragment  of  conversation  followed  Nancy's  visit  to  Mrs. 
Carteret,  that  afternoon.  She  had  found  her  still  courageously 
ready  to  pooh-pooh  the  idea  of  "  anything  having  happened  "  to 
her  brother-in-law.  But  her  courage  had  broken  down  as  her 
visitor's  own  misgivings  became  manifest.  For  of  course  Nancy 
Frascr's  bluster  about  miscarriage  of  letters  was  the  merest  af- 
fectation, and  she  was  a  very  poor  adherent  of  her  own  philoso- 
phy when  she  thought  to  herself  what  was  meant  by  a  head- 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  81 

master's  unexplained  absence  on  the   first  schoolday   after   tlie 
Easter  vacation. 

Moreover,  she  and  !Mrs.  Carteret  had  closely  analysed  the  posi- 
tion, and  had  come  to  the  conclusion  that  the  tracing  of  the 
missinsr  man  to  Wimbledon  station  had  made  matters  worse 
instead  of  better.  From  Fred's  report  it  was  practically  certain 
that  he  had  departed  by  the  five-o'clock  train  for  Vexton  Junc- 
tion. And  how  he  could  be  deflected  from  his  destination  on 
such  an  old  familiar  route  was  beyond  mortal  comprehension ! 
Nothing  short  of  being  murdered  and  thrown  out  on  the  line 
could  have  done  it.  Their  conversation  had  been  haunted  by  a 
grisly  phantom  of  a  corpse  in  a  tunnel,  overlooked  in  the  dark  by 
passing  trains,  and  a  more  probable — and  rather  less  discom- 
forting— one  in  a  ditch  at  the  bottom  of  an  embankment  in  a 
cleverly  schem-ed  invisible  corner.  These  phantoms  never  took 
actual  form  for  either,  but  each  was  aware  of  their  possibility 
in  the  mind  of  the  other.  As  far  as  speech  went,  each  stoutly 
maintained  an  attitude  of  confidence  that,  though  one  could  not 
see  why  a  bad  disaster  was  intrinsically  impossible,  there  could  be 
no  serious  doubt  that  it  was  so.  To  waver  on  the  point  would 
have  been  a  concession  to  Despair,  waiting  to  pounce  on  strag- 
glers on  the  very  doorstep  of  Hope.  Their  last  tribute  to  this 
confidence  was  a  pretence  that  they  could  dismiss  the  gruesome 
subject  from  their  minds  and  talk  about  something  else;  for  in- 
stance, the  Miss  Hinchliffe  who  was  to  be  on  view  next  Sunday. 

"You  mustn't  repeat  it  to  a  living  soul,  dear  Mrs.  Carteret, 
and  I  know  you  won't  .  .  .  will  you?  "  Nancy  stopped  for  a 
confirmation. 

"  I  think  it  ought  to  depend  a  little  on  what  it  is,  oughtn't 
it?"  said  Mrs.  Carteret.  "However — I'll  risk  it,  and  promise. 
Go  on." 

"  Well— it  is  that  1  detest  Snaith.  Unjustly,  no  doubt.  The 
fact  remains,  that  detest  him  I  do,  and  always  shall.  But  it 
makes  me  all  the  more  curious  to  see  the  girl  .who  can  .  .  . 
well — to  put  it  plainly — let  Snaith  kiss  her.  You  don't  mind 
my  putting  it  plainly?"  Nancy  was  sketching  Mr.  Snaith's 
nose  on  the  hearthrug  with  her  parasol. 

"  Not  at  all.  It  seems  to  me  that  all  parties  will  have  to  look 
the  fact  in  the  face,  sooner  or  later — the  kissing,  I  mean.  And 
it's  their  lookout,  you  know,  not  yours.  ...  1  wonder  where  I 
put  it,  that   ..."     Mrs.  Carteret  was  looking  for  something. 

"Anything  I  can  find?" 
I  think  not.     H's  a  photograph  Mr.   Snaith  lent  Fred.     I 


a 


82  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

put  it  away  to  be  safe.     Oli^  here  it  is ! — with  her  name  written 
underneath.     Lucia  Hinchliffe.     It's  her  signature." 

Nancy  left  the  nose  unfinished,  and  took  the  photograph  in 
her  hand.  It  seemed  to  disconcert  her — to  throw  her  out  of 
gear.  "Well!"  slie  said,  with  empressement.  "1  only  hope  it 
isn't  like  her.     That's  all  I  can  say." 

"For  Mr.  Snaith's  sake?" 

'•'  No — 0 — 0 — 0  ! — quite  the  other  way  round.  For  her  own 
sake.  Fancy  a  girl  like  that  throwing  herself  away  on  .  .  . 
Oh  dear!- — this  sort  of  thing  would  have  made  one  ask  for  smell- 
ing-salts if  one  had  been  one's  great-grandmother.  Now,  do 
looh  at  her,  dear  Mrs.  Carteret ! — and  saij  if  I'm  not  right." 

"•  I  see  an  oval  face  with  large  dark  eyes  and  plenty  of  eyelash 
— hair  on  the  forehead  very  pretty — separate  threads.  Lips  a 
little  apart  as  if  they  were  waiting  for  an  answer.  Hands  and 
throat  very  pretty,  as  though  they  would  show  blue  veins  in  the 
reality.  But  it  may  bo  all  the  photographer's  doing.  At  the 
same  time  it  may  not.  Suppose  we  give  her  the  benefit  of 
the  doubt.     We  shall  see  on  Sunday." 

"  Perhaps  she  won't  be  half  as  pretty.  I  devoutly  hope  not." 
And  Nancy  remained  with  her  own  candid  hazel  eyes  fixed  on 
the  dark  ones  in  the  fascinating  photograph,  till  Mrs.  Carteret 
applied  for  it,  saying  she  must  put  it  away  safe  because  it  didn't 
belong  to  her. 

When  Nancy  got  home  to  her  sister,  she  mentioned  that  she 
had  seen  a  portrait  of  the  Miss  Hinchliffe  Mr.  Snaith  was 
engaged  to,  whom  they  were  to  meet  on  Sunday.  But  she  gave 
no  details. 

Sunday  came,  and  the  Miss  Hinchliffe  Mr.  Snaith  was  en- 
gaged to  drove  him  over,  or  was  driven  over  with  him,  in  her 
mother's  brougham,  to  Maida  Vale.  Eemington  the  coachman 
was  told  he  would  not  be  wanted  again,  and  touched  his  hat. 
Miss  Hinchliffe's  desire  was  that  she  and  Mr.  Snaith  should  be 
free  lances,  and  it  was  complied  with,  metaphorically.  Free 
lances  in  those  days  took  hansoms  and  always  had  change  to  pay 
the  fare.  Nowadays  they  whistle  for  motors — which  don't  come 
— or  are  the  cause  of  whistling  in  others. 

The  two  young  ladies  from  Gipsy  Hill  bicycled  up  to  the  house 
just  after  Kemington  had  touched  his  hat,  and  just  before  Lips- 
combe  opened  the  garden  gate.  The  dachshund,  believing  the 
carriage  had  called  for  him,  rushed  out  and  established  himself 
on  the  back  seat  before  the  door  could  be  shut,  and  had  to  be 
extracted  and  apologized  for.     It  was  the  guilelessness  of  his  dis- 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  83 

position,  and  he  was  shown  to  have  bitten  no  one  for  a  very  long 
time;  quite  a  geological  period. 

Mrs.  Carteret  was  able  to  interleave  an  almost  momentary 
interview  with  Nancy  into  her  phases  of  satisfaction  at  wel- 
coming Mr.  Snaith  and  his  fiancee  into  her  house.  It  was  never- 
theless long  enough  to  communicate  that  no  news  had  come,  no 
light  had  l)een  thrown  on  her  brother-in-law's  disappearance,  and 
— what  should  have  been  a  comforting  consideration,  but  seemed 
the  reverse — that  Fred  had  gone  to  Scotland  Yard  to  lay  the  case 
before  the  Authorities,  and  that  no  doubt  that  was  what  had 
made  him  late.  It  was  a  formidable  and  oppressive  fact  that 
seemed  to  leave  no  further  room  for  evasion  of  the  main  issue; 
no  chance  of  not  looking  the  ugly  realities  in  the  face.  Mrs. 
Carteret  showed  Nancy  how  completely  upset  she  had  been  by 
this  step  towards  a  public  recognition  of  them,  and  how  thin  her 
pretexts  of  confidence  had  been  in  a  satisfactory  explanation  of 
the  mystery.  Still,  she  kept  her  uneasiness  in  abeyance  before 
her  visitors,  and  showed  a  fine  discipline.  Indeed,  of  the  two, 
Nancy  seemed  the  more  perturbed.  And  this  being  visible  to  her 
sister,  a  rapid  sotto-voce  communication  of  Fred's  mission  re- 
sulted, and  produced  in  her  also  an  appearance  of  disquiet.  But 
everyone  pretended  successfully  that  nothing  particular  was  the 
matter. 

Naturally,  this  pretence  involved  a  specious  assumption  of 
general  joyousness — of  reciprocities  in  universal  congratulation 
on  Heaven-knows-what-felicities  afloat  in  Space.  That  is  merely 
the  common  form  of  Society's  demeanour  until  some  of  its 
members  have  been  individualised  down  into  the  hctes-noires  of 
others.  This  little  company  was  all  smiles,  as  due.  Even  when 
the  hostess,  hearing  an  entry  at  the  garden  gate,  said  she  thought 
that  must  be  Fred,  and  went  out  to  meet  him,  no  one  took  any 
notice  of  a  sudden  tension  in  her  face,  unless  it  were  Nancy. 

That  young  lady  heard  the  fag-end  of  the  mother's  interview 
with  her  son  as  she  came  upstairs.  She  said : — "  Then  we  must 
wait  and  hope  to  hear  more."  And  he  replied : — "  That's  about 
what  it  comes  to.  They'll  do  their  best."  Then  the  exigencies 
of  visitors  to  luncli  banished  the  subject,  to  remain  in  abeyance 
till  the  coast  should  ])e  clear  again. 

"  You've  been  introduced,  I  suppose,"  said  Fred  to  the  fiancees, 
conjointly.  Oh  dear  yes ! — they  had  indeed.  And  a  species  of 
gush  testified  to  the  triumphant  thoroughness  of  the  introduc- 
tion, and  its  success.  This  implies  nothing  artificial  in  the 
character  of  either.     It  v.'as  merely  the  demeanour  in  such  a 


84  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

case  made  and  provided  b}'  the  Canon  Law  of  Society.  No 
more  than  that! 

"  How  do  I  like  her  ? "  said  Mrs.  Carteret  to  her  son,  that 
evening.  "  Charles  Snaith's  young  lady.  How  do  I  like  her?" 
She  laid  the  case  seriously  before  her  judicial  faculties,  and 
.seemed  to  await  the  coming  of  some  witness  whose  subpoena  had 
been  delayed. 

Fred  assumed  an  apologetic  tone;  quite  suddenly,  without 
apparent  reason.  "  I  had  to  be  very  attentive,"  he  said,  *■'  be- 
cause of  Charley." 

"  Oh,  I  quite  understand,"  said  his  mother.  A  sub-smile  that 
was  indeterminate  upon  her  lips  wavered  a  moment.  Then 
decided  on  expansion.  "■  It  didn't  seem  .  .  .  exactly  a  sick- 
ening job  " — she  said. 

"  Oh,  not  the  least — not  the  least !  "  said  her  son.  "  ^^^ly 
should  it?  In  fact,  I  liked  her.  Yes,  I  decidedly  liked  her!" 
He  hung  fire  a  little  before  adding: — "  Cintra  doesn't.  I  sup- 
pose you  saw  that." 

"  Oh  ye.s — /  saw !  "  ]\[rs.  Carteret's  manner  may  have  meant 
that  her  son  need  not  suppose  she  did  not  see  things.  However, 
she  crossed  Cintra  off,  and  went  to  another  item.  ''  Only  I  must 
sav  that  that  dear  girl,  my  particular  friend   ..." 

■"Elb— Nancy?" 

"Yes — Xancy.  Not  Elbows!  Oh,  I  know  the  ridiculous 
name  you  boys  thought  fit  to  call  her  by.  .  .  .  Well — she  was 
very   ..." 

"Very  what?" 

Mrs.  Carteret  reflected,  gravely,  handsomely.  "  Well — sup- 
pose I  say  half-and-half,  about  this  Lucy  girl !  Yes — Nancy 
was  half-and-half.     What  a  very  dear  girl  she  is !  " 

"  Oh  ves — Nancy's  all  right.  Very  fond  of  Nancv.  So  she 
didn't  take  to   .    .  \" 

"  To  .  .  .  ?  "  Was  his  mother  bent  on  making  him  say  the 
name  ?    If  so,  why  ?  " 

"To  Miss  Hinchliffe?" 

"  Were  you  not  to  call  her  Lucy  ?     T  thought  it  was  decided." 

Fred  answered  with  an  uneasy  half-laugh : — "  It  hasn't  been 
publicly  discussed,  you  know.     She  knows  nothing  about  it." 

"  Oh,  I've  no  doubt  it's  all  right.  Now  tell  me  what  Mr. 
Snaith's  partner  said."  Her  interest  in  the  new  fiancee  had 
been  only  skin-deep. 

"Trymer?  Trymer  said  we  had  only  negative  evidence  to 
look  to,  so  far."     Fred  reported  this  as  if  it  was  a  substantial 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  85 

contribution  to  the  solution  of  the  question  under  discussion. 
But  he  added  that  Mr.  Trymer  had  emphatically  welcomed  an 
appeal  to  Scotland  Yard.  ''  So  I  went  straight  there,  and  saw 
the  boss." 

"  And  what  did  he  say  ?  " 

"  He  was  consolatory,  as  far  as  he  went." 

"  And  how  far  did  he  go?  " 

"  Well — it  was  something.  He  said  that  cases  of  the  sort  were 
simply  innumerable,  and  that  only  one  in  a  thousand  didn't  fall 
through.  He  meant  that  when  the  people  turned  up,  the  case 
lost  its  interest — for  Scotland  Yard.  Then  he  said  there  was 
very  seldom  a  case  where  it  wasn't  a  woman  somehow." 

Mrs.  Carteret  smiled  coldly : — "  And  wlien  a  woman  disap- 
pears, isn't  it  a  man  ?  "  She  was  always  on  the  lookout  to  give 
the  same  sauce  to  geese  and  ganders.  However,  it  was  beside  the 
mark  at  present.  "  There  is  no  woman  in  this  case,"  said  she. 
"  I  suppose  you  gave  him  every  particular?  " 

"  Absolutely  everything.  And  we  shall  hear  at  once  if  they 
get  any  clue.  He  was  against  advertisement — at  least  for  the 
present.  If  the  person  advertised  for  wanted  to  keep  out  of  the 
way.  an  advertisement  of  his  appearance  would  only  show  him 
what  he  was  not  to  look  like.  I  told  him  that  my  uncle's  want- 
ing to  keep  out  of  the  wav  was  absurd." 

"^Miat  did  he  say?" 

"  He  said  everyone  said  that,  in  every  case  of  an  unaccount- 
able disappearance.  He  told  me  queer  stories  of  disappear- 
ances."    Fred  went  on  to  repeat  some  of  these. 

His  mother  listened  to  one  or  two,  and  then  said : — "  But  there 
is  no  resemblance  in  any  of  tliese  cases.  That  man  who  dressed 
up  as  a  woman  was  not  over  six  feet  high  and  weighing  twenty 
stone..  Absurd!  "  Slie  thought,  however,  that  this  official's  con- 
viction that  Dr.  Carteret  had  never  gone  to  Wimbledon  had  some 
value,  because  he  was  absolutely  unable  to  assign  any  reason  for 
it.  All  opinions  the  holder  cannot  account  for  should  be  listened 
to,  she  said,  and  all  logical  deductions — of  experts,  at  any  rate — 
systematically  discountenanced.  Fred  felt  bound  to  protest 
against  these  views,  as  weak  and  feminine :  but  he  had  under- 
doubts  of  whether  there  was  not  something  to  bo  said  for 
them. 

''Which  sort  of  way  shall  we  go  now?"  said  Mr.  Snaith  to 
Miss  Lucia  Hinchliffe  when  they  had  watched  the  two  young 
lady  bicyclists  out  of  sight,  and  said  farewell  to  Fred  at  the  gate 


86  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

of  his  mother's  residence.  He  seemed  a  little  anxious  to  get 
back  to  her. 

"  Any  way  you  like.  I  don't  care.  Don't  you  think  one  place 
is  exactly  like  another  ?  " 

"  Can't  say  I  do."  Mr.  Snaith's  beaming  smile  as  he  gazed  on 
his  beautiful  companion  was  a  set-off  to  the  eyeglass  he  saw  her 
through,  and  the  nose  that  was  so  obnoxious  to  Miss  Nancy 
Fraser. 

"  Well — settle  any  place  you  like.  I'll  go."  But  when  a 
speaker  expresses  complete  subservience  to  your  will,  she  should 
not  at  the  same  moment  stop  a  yawn  behind  the  finge-rs  of  a 
straw-coloured  glove,  size  No.  G.  Complaisance  should  be  recog- 
nised by  its  recipient.  The  little  account  of  its  executant  should 
not  be  presented  for  cash  across  invoice. 

"  I  say,  Lucy,  you're  getting  bored.  Can't  stand  that!  Never 
do — never  do !  "  This  most  amiable  of  lovers  spoke  in  a  tone  of 
real  alarm. 

The  young  lady  thought  it  incumbent  on  her  to  relent.  She 
smiled  as  from  a  zenith.  "  Suppose  we  were  to  go  to — to — 
Hampstead  Heath?"  said  she.  "Like  a  Sunday  out,  don't  you 
know?     I  think  I  should  like  that." 

"  By  George,  what  a  ripping  idea  !  Hampstead  Heath.  Only 
I  can't  see  any  liansom.  .  .  .  No — we  won't  take  that  one.  It's 
not  our  sort.  We  must  walk  to  the  stand."  They  did  so,  and 
the  discountenanced  driver  of  the  wrong  sort  of  vehicle  lurched 
by,  with  a  new  thorn  in  a  misanthropic  heart.  "  He  saw  us 
mean  to,  and  change  our  minds "  was  a  thought  that  flitted 
through  them,  and  found  its  way  to  the  young  lady's  lips. 
"  How  he  hates  us!  "  said  she. 

The  air  that  day  thought  spring  was  coming  in  earnest,  but 
hesitated  over  saying  so.  They  reached  a  cabstand  that  con- 
sisted of  two  cabs  of  the  right  sort,  one  driver,  one  waterman, 
four  tubs,  and  an  iron  post  that  yielded  water  to  possessors 
of  its  secret. 

"  How  long  shall  we  be  getting  to  Hampstead  Heath  ?  "  His 
meaning  being  obvious,  Mr.  Snaith's  simplicity  expected  a  direct 
answer. 

But  the  London  cabman  is — or  was — an  inscrutable  being.  It 
was  impossible  to  be  even  with  him.  This  one  said  merely: — 
"  Walkin'?  "  and  waited  for  an  answer. 

Mr.  Snaith  re-framed  his  question  so  as  to  exclude  ambiguity. 
The  cabman  referred  to  an  authority — the  waterman.  "  How 
long  do  you  make  it,  Heverett,  to  drive  this  here  lady  and  gentle- 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  87 

man  to  Hampstead  ?  "  indicating  them  as  a  cargo  whose  weight 
had  to  be  considered.  The  waterman,  alive  to  responsibility, 
replied : — "  That's  aecordin'  to  the  road  yon  take,  Samuel.  You 
go  round  by  Bermondsey,  you  won't  git  up  there  not  afore  dark. 
You  leave  your  horse  alone,  and  he'll  git  you  there  in  twenty 
minutes."  This  seemed  satisfactory,  and  the  lady  and  gentle- 
man reached  the  Lower  Heath  in  about  that  time. 

"  Who  is  Uncle  Drury,  and  why  are  they  making  such  a  fuss 
about  him?"  Thus  the  young  lady,  with  a  languid  interest, 
after  learning  without  any  at  all  that  that  was  Harrow,  and  the 
horizon  was  in  Hertfordshire. 

''Are  they  making  a  fuss  about  him?"  asked  the  young 
gentleman,  discreetly. 

"  Yes — at  least,  no  one  said  anything  to  me  about  it.  But 
I  could  see  there  was  a  fuss.     What  is  it  ?  " 

Discretion  dictated  professional  reserve.  "  Well — I  suppose 
I  may  mention  it  to  yon.  Only  don't  say  anything  to  any- 
one.    I  know  they  would  rather  not  have  it  talked  about.    ..." 

"  Oh,  don't  tell  me,  if  it's  a  secret.  I  hate  prying  into  other 
people's  affairs." 

Nevertheless  Mr.  Snaith,  thinking  he  detected  in  his  adored 
one's  voice  a  trace  of  readiness  to  be  offended  with  a  lover  who 
did  not  share  all  his  confidences  with  the  chosen  of  his  hearty 
considered  it  safest  to  do  so  in  this  instance.  "  I  expect  it's  all 
a  false  alarm,"  said  he.  "  But,  for  all  that,  the  old  boy  hasn't 
been  seen  for  three  weeks  past,  and  he  went  off  to  go  straight  to 
his  school — he's  a  headmaster  of  a  big  school  in  the  West  of 
England — where  his  presence  on  the  first  day  of  the  term  was  of 
vital  importance,  and  ho  never  arrived." 

"  Never  arrived !  "  Miss  Hinchliffe's  languor  became  vivid 
interest  suddenly.  Her  dark  eyes,  somewhat  bored  before, 
flamed  with  a  very  becoming  animation.  "  Why — he  may  have 
been  murdered !  " 

"May  have  been.  Anything  may  have  been.  Only  one 
doesn't  rush  to  the  conclusion  that  a  man  has  been  murdered 
without  strong  evidence." 

"  That  sounds  true  and  prosy.  But  what  has  become  of  this 
old  gentleman?"  She  waited  for  an  answer,  and  spoke  again 
before  her  companion  could  concoct  one.  "  Was  he,  perhaps,  the 
sort  of  old  person  that  one  isn't  sure  one  couldn't  do  without 
him?  .  .  .  That's  not  right — I  mean  I've  got  the  words 
wrong.  ..."  She  ran  through  the  words  again,  and  ended: — 
"  I  see.     Leave  '  him  '  out  and  it's  all  right." 


88  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

"  Oil  ah! — that's  prose  composition,  isn't  it?  I'm  not  a  dab." 
Mr.  Snaith  polished  his  eyeglass  to  see  the  young  lady  clearer, 
and  repeated  her  words.  "  '  The  sort  of  old  person  that  one  isn't 
sure  one  couldn't  do  without!'  Sounds  all  right!  Well — I'm 
not  sure  that  he  was  the  sort  of  person  one  was  sure  one  could 
do  without.     Can't  fill  out  the  order  better  than  that  at  present." 

"  You  said  *  was.'  " 

"  Well— suppose  I  did?" 

"  Tluit  means  you  think  he's  been  murdered !  " 

"  Come ! — I  say !     Draw  it  mild." 

"  I  wish  you  Avould  tell  me  what  you  really  think." 

Now,  this  young  solicitor,  although  sorely  exercised  in  mind 
about  the  disappearance  of  his  friend's  relation,  was  encourag- 
ing professional  exercises  on  the  subject,  and  throwing  wet 
blankets  over  spontaneous  ignitions  of  common  sense.  He  had 
been  fostering  that  curious  condition  of  mind  to  which  we  are 
all  reduced  if  we  burn  our  fingers  with  percentages.  Was  it  not 
clear — did  not  a  work  on  Crime  and  its  Detection  tell  him  so? 
— that  a  ver}^  minute  percentage  of  Disappearances  could  be 
traced  to  Murder,  and  only  a  slightly  larger  one  to  Suicides; 
about  the  same  to  sudden  mental  affections,  loss  of  memory  and 
so  forth ;  but  a  huge  slice  to  the  spontaneous  volition  of  the  ab- 
sentee, who  turns  up  in  the  best  of  health  and  spirits  some  weeks 
or  months  later,  at  which  time  another  absentee,  of  the  opposite 
sex,  is  usually  accounted  for.  This  overwhelming  percentage 
was  a  vast  comfort  to  him.  And  though  the  reputation  of  the 
Rev.  Drury  Carteret  was  unassailable,  it  was  to  be  noted  that 
the  more  unsullied  the  reputation,  the  more  necessary  would  de- 
materialisation — as  good  a  word  as  another — be,  if  the  unblem- 
ished repute  felt  its  proprietor's  natural  lawlessness  was  groMung 
too  strong  for  it. 

Therefore  ^Ir.  Snaith,  thus  adjured  by  the  Mistress  of  his 
Soul,  was  rather  at  a  loss  to  say  what  he  really  thought.  He 
assumed  a  judicial  aspect — which  is  one  we  all  assume  when  we 
mean  not  to  come  to  the  point — and  looked  so  solemn  over  it 
tliat  she  may  have  really  believed  he  was  going  to  say  some- 
thing. 

"I  think,"  said  he,  *'  that  this  is  a  well-marked  instance  of-a 
case  that  calls  for  suspension  of  opinion." 

"  Oh,"  said  the  young  lady,  veiy  succinctly.  And  she  said 
nothing  else. 

Her  lover  seemed  dissatisfied.  'MVell?"  said  he  inter- 
rogatively. 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  .  89 

"  I  want  to  know  what  your  opinion  is.  Suspend  it  by  all 
means,  but  say  what  it  is." 

"  That's  a  rum  way  of  looking  at  it.  However,  of  course  I 
can  tell  you  my  idea." 

"  That's  rigiit.     Tell  me  your  idea." 

"  Dr.  Carteret  met  a  friend  in  the  train  .  .  .  No — not  a 
lady !  .  .  .  going  to  Southampton.  Some  very  old  friend  he 
hadn't  seen  for  years.  Then  he  missed  his  station  to  change  at, 
and  thought  he  might  just  as  well  go  on,  and  see  his  friend  off. 
Then  he  went  on  board  the  tender,  and  didn't  get  off  in  time. 
Then  the  tender  left  him  on  the  ship.  Then  his  only  chance 
was  to  come  away  with  the  pilot." 

"And  why  didn't  he?" 

"  Did  you  ever  see  the  pilot  get  off  a  ship  into  his  boat,  off 
The  Needles,  in  a  strong  sou'wester,  such  as  we  were  having  three 
weeks  since?  Tf  you  ever  have,  you'll  know  why  he  didn't, 
without  telling." 

'■'  Then  you  think  he's  been  carried  away  to  Cape  Town,  or 
somewhere  ?  " 

"  To  Madeira.  He  might  have  to  wait  a  week  for  a  return 
boat.  That  and  another  week  for  the  journey  makes  him  three 
weeks  away.     That  brings  him  to  now,  accidents  apart." 

"  Stop  a  minute,  Mr.  Cleverness.  You've  forgotten  some- 
thing. Why  didn't  he  write,  or  telegraph,  to  say  where  he 
was  ?  "  Mr.  Snaith  had  to  invent  reasons,  lame  enougli  but  not 
absurd,  to  meet  both  objections.  Feeling  their  insecurity,  he 
tried  for  another  topic.  How  did  his  fiancee  like  the  young  lady 
of  his  friend's  choice?  Oh — she  was  all  very  well.  Very  nice 
and  all  that.     But  wasn't  she  rather   .    .    .  ?  " 

"  Rather  what  ?  " 

''  Well — I  suppose  it  isn't  fair  to  say  commonplace.  No — not 
commonplace  exactly!  But  considering  what  an  interesting  man 
she's  going  to  marry,  isn't  she  just  a  little — young-ladylike  ?  " 

Mr.  Snaith's  generous  heart — for  he  had  one — was  hurt  that 
his  friend's  lady-love  was  not  meeting  with  appreciation.  Even 
his  keen  sympathy  with  the  panegyric  of  his  friend  did  not  con- 
sole him  for  this  cold  douche  on  his  sanguine  anticipations  of 
the  result  of  this  introduction.  He  had  looked  forward  to  see- 
ing these  two  girls  rush  into  one  another's  arms.  And  here  was 
his,  saying  that  Fred's  was  "  not  commonplace  exactly."  He 
broke  into  an  extravagant  eulogium  of  Cintra — extravagant  con- 
sidering what  his  knowledge  of  her  amounted  to — representing^ 
her  as  consisting  almost  entirely  of  intrinsic  virtues  witliout 


90  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

external  manifestation.  It  was  impossible  to  overestimate  their 
value. 

"•  Oh,"  said  Miss  Lucy  Hinchlifie. 

"  We  ought  never  to  let  ourselves  be  deceived  by  appearances." 

"  Oughtn't  we  ?     I  always  do." 

"  Don't  believe  you  !  " 

"  Very  well — don't !  .  .  .  Now,  if  it  had  been  the  other 
girl   ..." 

"Elbows?" 

"What  do  you  call  her?  .  .  .  Oh— Elbows!  But  why 
Elbows?" 

Mr.  Snaith  was  not  prepared  to  stand  an  examination  on  this 
subject.  He  backed  out.  "  Only  a  name  we  call  her  by !  Just 
a  name  !  "  said  he. 

"  You  did  not  call  it  her  without  some  reason.  What  was 
your  reason  ?  " 

"  A — well — I  don't  know  that  we  had  any  reason  in  par- 
ticular.   .    .    .    P'r'aps  because  she  left  an  impression  of  elbows  !  " 

"  On  whom  ?  " 

"  On  both  of  us.     A  mental  impression,  I  mean." 

"  So  I  understood.  But  what  I  want  to  know  is  why  didn't 
Fred  Carteret  propose  to  .  .  .  to  Elbows?"  She  accepted  the 
name  without  laughing  over  it. 

"  Eidiculous  idea  !  "  And  Mr.  Snaith  evidently  thought  it  so. 
Why  should  such  a  really  brilliant  and  promising  fellow  as  his 
friend  throw  himself  away  on  a — on  a — well! — on  a  dowdy? 
"  A  girl  with  no  looks  to  speak  of — the  sort  of  girl  I  should  call 
a  chap  more  than  a  girl.    ..." 

"  Are  chaps  dowdies?"     A  question  asked  very  coldly. 

Mr.  Snaith  relented,  not  feeling  secure.  "  No — really — I 
don't  mean  to  say  Elbows  is  a  bad  fellow.  But  you  must  admit 
that  she's  not  the  sort  of  girl  a  man  wants  to  marry." 

"  Why  does  your  friend  want  to  marry  the  insipid  sister?" 

"  I  say,  you're  incurable.  Oughtn't  we  to  be  on  the  move  ? 
It's  going  to  begin  to  get  dark."  And  thereupon  this  pair  of 
lovers  started  to  return  home,  having  all  but  fallen  out  over  what 
was  reall}^  the  rearrangement  of  other  people's  affairs,  suggested 
by  the  one  who  had  the  lesser- right  of  the  two  to  interfere  with 
them. 

The  stor}^  feeling  inclined  to  know  something  of  what  the 
young  ladies  under  discussion  thought  about  the  newly  made 
acquaintance  who  had  formed  such  decisive  opinions  of  them. 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  91 

will  follow  the  bicyclists,  and  overhear  as  much  as  it  can  of 
their  conversation. 

"Well! — what  do  you  think?"  This  was  Cintra,  coming 
alongside  of  her  sister,  who  was  given  to  sudden  sprinting,  and 
had  shot  ahead.     "  Don't  rush  on  so.     I  want  to  talk." 

Nancy  slows  down.     "  About  which  ?  "  says  she. 

"  About  which  whats  ?  " 

"Which  of  the  things?" 

"  You  know  what  I  mean  perfectly  well." 

"  No,  I  don't." 

"  Weil — if  you  will  have  it,  about  that  detestable  girl !  " 

"  I  thought  you  might  mean  the  disappearance." 

"The  disappearence?  Oh  yes,  the  old  schoolmaster  uncle!" 
Cintra  does  him  the  honour  of  a  moment's  consideration,  before 
disposing  of  him.  "  No — lie'll  be  all  right,  you'll  see.  You 
know  Fred's  and  Charley  Snaith's  idea  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know  any  of  Mr.  Snaith's  ideas,  and  what's  more 
I  don't  want  to." 

"  Well  then !  Fred's  idea  without  Mr.  Snaith.  Do  you  want 
to  know  it,  or  not  to  ?  " 

"  To."  This  monosyllable — perhaps  the  shortest  answer  of 
which  the  language  is  capable — produces  a  rjsume  of  the 
Madeira  theory  with  which  the  story  is  already  familiar.  It  only 
elicits  another  monosyllable  from  its  hearer — the  one  usually 
written  "  H'ni !  "  Which,  however,  has  no  meaning,  or  may  mean 
anything. 

"  I  don't  see  the  use,"  Cintra  says,  "  of  pretending  to  be  a 
Sphinx.    .    .    .   What  do  you  think  though,  Nancy  dear?" 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know.  How  should  I  ?  I've  hardly  so  much  as 
spoken  to  the  old  gentleman.  He  may  be  the  sort  that  gets 
carried  away  on  ships  to  Madeira,  for  anything  I  know.  What's 
the  other  thing?  " 

"  Wh}^ — that  odious  girl,  of  course.  What  should  it  be?" 
Then  both  these  young  women  feel  that  they  have  reached  the 
tlieme  of  their  duet;  having  only,  so  far,  dealt  with  the  pre- 
lude. 

The  first  phrase  is  in  Nancy's  part,  and  is  emphasised.  "  She's 
fascinatingly  beautiful,  anyhow.     You  must  admit  that,  Cit." 

"  Oh  dear !      I  didn't  think  so  at  all !  "      Cintra  is  chilling. 
"  Of   a   commonplace    type    perhaps.      How    exactly    like    you, 
dear !  " 
"  \\nrat's  exactly  like  me  ?     Her  ?  " 
"  No,  thank  Heaven !     I  mean  discovering  beauties." 


92  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

"  I  should  have  thought  ^ho  didn't  want  much  discovering. 
You  ayk  Fred  what  lie  thinks !  " 

"  I  shall  do  nothing  of  the  sort."  Cintra's  own  comeliness, 
which  is  not  of  an  iincommonplace  type,  is  enhanced  by  the 
animation  with  which  this  is  spoken.  Indeed,  she  flushes 
slightly  over  it.  There  is  no  doubt  that  she  is  rightly  considered 
the  family  beauty.  Why  is  there  always  one  among  English 
sisters  who  fills  the  post?  She  adds  after  a  moment: — *'  Fred  is 
not  likely  to  be  taken  with  every  insipid  chit." 

Says  Xancy : — "■'  Men  are,  sometimes."  Then  after  reflec- 
tion : — "  But  this  chit's  bespoke."  For  the  loyalty  and  order  of 
fancy's  soul  do  not  admit  vagaries  on  Cupid's  part  in  reputable 
modern  life;  where  no  man  ever  covets  his  neighbour's  wife  or 
sweetheart,  any  more  than  his  ox  or  his  ass. 

And  Cintra,  this  chapter  supposes,  may  have  cancelled  such  a 
thought  in  its  birth,  as  one  cancels  the  poisonous  fly  as  he  inserts 
his  proboscis — usually  ten  seconds  too  late.  But  there  was  some 
undercurrent  discomfort  in  her  thought,  to  judge  by  the  tone  in 
which  she  began  to  say : — ''  It's  all  very  well  for  you,  Xance, 
but    ..."  and  stopped  short. 

■'■  What's  all  very  well  for  me  ?  " 

"  You  won't  have  to  live  in  the  same  house." 

"'  Why  do  you  speak  as  if  it  was  settled?  She  hasn't  even  seen 
the  house.  Besides,  after  all,  it  wouldn't  be  the  same  house.  It 
would  be  next  door." 

"  Well — you  won't  have  to  live  next  door.  Y^ou  know  you 
won't." 

'•  I  don't  see  why  you  any  more  than  711  c.  Y'ou've  only  got  to 
know  your  own  mind.  Tell  Fred  you  won't  live  next  door  to 
Mrs.  Nose}',  to  please  him  or  anyone." 

"  Couldn't  I  put  it  on  something  else?  Suppose  I  was  to  say 
it  had  been  a  madhouse,  and  1  didn't  like  madhouses?" 

''  Just  as  you  please.  /  should  say — tell  him  the  truth!  Only, 
remember  you've  only  just  seen  her.  How  do  you  know  you 
won't  think  her  ducky  in  a  week  ?  " 

Cintra  flashes  out.  "  The  idea  I  I  know — I  tell  you  I  know 
— I  shall  always  detest  her."  Her  bicycle  wavers  in  a  rut,  and 
she  has  to  negotiate  it  out.  She  does  not  forget  her  indignation 
when  she  gets  straight  again,  but  adds  a  corollary  to  it.  '*  An 
artiflcial  minx,  if  ever  there  was  one  I  " 

Says  her  sister,  unmoved  to  sympathy : — "  The  artificial  minx 
is  sweetly  pretty,  anyhow.  The  most  appealing  eyes  I  ever  saw 
in  my  life  !  " 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  93 


» 


"  Appealing  eyes  indeed !    Oh  yes — one  knows  the  sort.  . 
But  we  shan't  agree,  dear,  so  we'd  better  not  talk  about  it. 
Her  laugh,  as  she  says  this,  is  just  a  little  strained.     However, 
Xancy  only  says : — "  Perhaps  we  hadn't,"  and  the  subject  drops. 

Mention  has  been  made  of  Miss  Fraser's  habit  of  passionate 
admiration  of  her  own  sex,  so  her  estimate  of  the  beauty  of 
the  artificial  minx  may  have  been  exaggerated. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

The  authorities  at  Scotland  Yard  communicated  in  due 
course  with  Mr.  Frederic  Carteret.  And  due  course  was  a  week 
or  more.  During  that  week  Fred  sounded  every  depth  in  the 
ocean  of  his  ingenuity,  until  it  resembled  the  best  investigated 
of  seas  in  the  most  recent  of  Admiralty  charts,  to  find  fishing 
orrounds  for  new  theories  to  account  for  his  uncle's  absence,  and 
keep  despair  at  bay  in  the  mind  of  his  mother.  His  draughts 
of  fish  were  unsatisfactory,  mere  tittlebats  and  minnows —  t 
theories  that  would  not  bear  handling.  And  then  came  an 
emissary  from  the  Yard,  to  report  progress,  or  the  absence  of 
progress;  half  an  hour's  conversation  with  whom  went  far  to 
dash  the  hopes  that  every  day  without  news  was  already  making 
smaller.  No  doubt  this  well-meaning  official  believed  that  his 
exhortations  to  Fred  not  to  lose  heart  had  some  efficacy  against 
despair,  however  little.     But  their  effect  was  really  depressing. 

Every  means  of  tracing  the  missing  man — so  he  said — had 
been  taken,  regardless  of  expense;  except  indeed  advertisement 
in  the  Press,  which  often  did  as  much  harm  as  good  in  the  early 
stages  of  an  enquiry.  He  had  himself  twice  visited  The  Cedars, 
the  house  where  the  Rev.  Dr.  Carteret  had  been  last  visible  to 
the  eyes  of  Recollection,  and  had  endeavoured  to  induce  that 
Divinity,  or  Principle,  who  has  as  many  eyes  as  Argus  for  what- 
ever she  chooses  to  look  for,  to  open  one  or  two  of  her  closed 
ones  on  the  landscape  of  the  Past,  growing  dimmer  day  by  day. 
But  her  eyesight,  if  her  only  agents  on  the  spot  were  to  be 
trusted,  could  detect  nothing  of  the  old  boy  of  a  satisfactory 
nature,  since  Mrs.  Grewboer  left  him,  conversing  with  himself,  to 
answer  the  gate-bell,  and  had  her  attention  effectually  diverted 
from  him  by  the  plight  of  her  old  husband. 

"  I  expect,"  said  Fred  that  same  evening  to  his  friend  Charley, 
conversing  with  him  at  his  chambers  shortly  after  the  departure 
of  the  police-officer,  "  I  expect  this  chap — Manton's  his  name — 
has  scared  those  two  boozy  old  Grewbeers  out  of  their  five 
wits.    .    .    .    Wliat  do  you  think  he  went  and  said  to  them?  " 

"Give  it  up!" 

"  Clean  out  of  their  five  wits — if  they  have  five !  He  told 
them  they  would  be  held  accountable." 

94 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  95 

'MVliat  for?" 

"  I  don't  exactly  know.  Of  course  it  was  only  to  frighten 
them  and  make  them  tell  .  .  .  whatever  they  had  to  tell.  I 
don't  see  how  they  could  know  anything  more  than  they  have 
told.  Unless  they  are  liars.  They  may  he,  like  the  boy — the 
costermonger's  boy.     Manton  saw  him." 

"What  did  he  say?" 

"  Said  he  saw  nothing  of  my  uncle — stuck  to  his  story.  I  was 
going  to  tell  you  about  Manton."' 

"  Go  ahead !  " 

"  He  trotted  those  two  old  gaffers  over  the  house — made  them 
show  him  everything,  down  to  the  cellars.  He  regularly  made 
my  flesh  creep  " — here  Fred  wriggled  uneasily — "  by  describing 
how  he  looked  behind  the  coals  in  the  cellar.  And  how  he  went 
over  the  garden,  and  examined  every  inch  of  the  ground,  to  see 
if  any  of  it  had  been  disturbed.  But  he  saw  nothing.  Of 
course  not !  " 

"  Thought  your  uncle  had  been  murdered  for  his  valuables,  I 
suppose.  Well — such  things  have  been.  Empty  houses  have  a 
bad  name.  I  expect  Mr.  ]\Ianton  was  very  much  put  out  at 
finding  nothing." 

"  I  thought  he  did  seem  a  little  disgusted.  But  with  Fate — 
Providence.  Not  with  my  uncle.  F[e  made  every  allowance  for 
the  views  of  the  proposed  victim.  Still,  he  could  not  conceal  his 
professional  disappointment.  The  same  when  he  told  me  of  the 
search  along  both  sides  of  the  railway  line,  Avith  dogs.  '  We  shall 
go  over  the  ground  again,'  he  said,  '  though  I  can't  say  I've  any 
hope  in  that  quarter.'  I  found  myself  getting  quite  grieved  on 
his  account,  and  tried  to  hold  out  hopes  of — of  success — in  some 
new  untriecl  quarter." 

''  Then  he  must  be  hoping  your  uncle  is  alive,  if  he  despairs 
of  finding  him  dead." 

"  Well — yes !  Or  fearing  he  is  alive.  Of  course  our  interests 
differ." 

In  talking  to  his  friend  at  this  time  Fred  kept  up  a  faux  air 
of  confidence  that  nothing  "  could  have  happened  "  to  his  uncle, 
by  an  affectation  of  cold  blood  in  discussing  the  possibility  of  his 
having  been  murdered.  One  would  have  thought,  to  hear  him 
chatting  over  it  with  his  friend,  that  they  were  hardened  cynics, 
and  that  the  vanished  man  was  a  special  object  of  their  indif- 
ference. With  his  mother,  Fred  cast  aside  this  mask  of  assumed 
callousness,  and  showed  his  real  self. 

Under  the  circumstances,  and  in  view  of  the  visible  anxiety  that 


9G  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

was  constantly  wearing  at  her  heart  and  depressing  her  spirits, 
he  made  a  point  of  spending  hi.s  evenings  with  her,  and  doing  the 
best  that  was  in  him  to  stave  otf  despair  of  his  uncle's  reap- 
pearance, alive  and  well.     But  the  task  grew  harder  and  harder. 

Her  greeting  to  him  on  the  day  after  his  interview  with  the 
emissary  from  Scotland  Yard  was  what  it  had  come  to  be, 
evening  after  evening,  whenever  he  a])peared  at  Maida  Vale. 
She  only  looked  into  his  face  steadily,  v.itli  a  tension  on  her  own 
that  spoke  of  the  waiting  for  news  of  which  this  was  the  climax; 
and  said  interrogatively: — "Well?" 

He  had  learned  that  it  was  best  to  damp  all  hope  first;  and 
then  to  bring  forward  what  ho  had  to  tell,  if  anything,  that 
would  revive  it.  So  his  first  answer  was  to  shrug  his  shoulders 
and  shake  his  head,  and  make  the  word  '"  nothing  "  with  his  lips. 
Then,  when  a  stifled  sigh  had  made  its  record  of  her  disappoint- 
ment, he  brought  forward  his  alleviation,  for  what  it  was  worth. 
"  However,  I  have  seen  the  man  from  Scotland  Yard.  He  called 
this  afternoon." 

"Oh — and  what  did  he  say?"  The  expectation  of  a  new 
possibility  was  in  her  voice. 

"  It  didn't  come  to  much.  But  it  does  seem  as  if  we  might 
put  aside  any  idea  of — of  anything — between  the  time  of  his 
leaving  The  Cedars  and  his  arrival,  or  what  should  have  been  his 
arrival,  at  the  school  that  evening." 

Mrs.  Carteret  reworded  his  speech  more  clearly,  and  did  not 
flinch  from  its  real  meaning.  "  That  is  to  say,  we  may  feel  sure 
he  was  not  murdered  on  the  way  home.  How  can  they  tell 
that?"  Fred  gave  the  particulars  already  given,  and  she 
added: — "Well — that  is  something,  at  any  rate!" 

Fred  felt  he  need  not  tone  down  this  much  encouragement. 
"  My  own  belief,"  said  he,  "  is  that  everything  points  to  the 
miscarriage  of  some  explanatory  letter — one  that  would  have 
cleared  up  everything,  and  told  us  where  he  is  now.  Probably 
he  would  write  to  Mrs.  Thingummy  at  the  school — not  to  iis. 
I  can  imagine  a  hundred  contretemps  that  might  make  him 
change  his  plan." 

"  1  can't."  Mrs.  Carteret  spoke  with  a  quiet  decision,  and 
Fred,  on  reflection,  was  obliged  to  admit  to  himself  that  the 
contretemps  he  could  imagine  were  less  than  a  hundred.  The 
Avorst  of  it  was  that  the  probability  of  every  expedient  of  this 
sort  diminished  by  leaps  and  bounds,  and  the  time  was  at  hand 
when  baffled  Invention  would  have  to  throw  up  the  sponge. 

Fred's  mother  was  not  always  so  self-contained — so  secretive 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  97 

about  the  degree  of  her  apprehension.  This  evening  she  inter- 
rupted his  reading  aloud  of  some  interesting  adventures  in 
Thibet,  to  say: — ''  I  can't  listen — my  head  goes  .  .  .  But  wait 
a  little."  He  waited,  and  took  note  of  an  aimless  wandering  in 
her  hands,  that  seemed  to  come  at  times  and  would  not  let  them 
rest.  "  I  can't  help  it,"  she  said  presently.  "  I  know  I  exag- 
gerate. But  think  what  the  possibilities  are!  All  last  night  I 
was  imagining  horrors." 

Fred  saw  his  way  to  a  form  of  solace  which  has  its  recom- 
mendations as  a  means  of  sootliing  other  folks'  fears,  however 
well  grounded.  "  My  dear  Mother,"  said  he,  ""  if  we  were  always 
to  be  thinking  what  horrors  are  possible,  only  people  with  very 
strong  nerves  would  remain  sane.  Or  perhaps  with  no  imagina- 
tion at  all." 

"  I  wish  I  had  no  imagination  at  all." 

Fred  persevered.  "  Do  just  consider,"  said  he,  "'  how  excep- 
tional this  case  is.  We  may  almost  be  said  to  know,  for  certain, 
exactly  when — wliere  it  would  have  happened  if   .    .    ." 

"  If  he  had  been  murdered.  Say  it  out !  That  is  what  you 
meant?  " 

"  Well,  I  suppose  I  did.  Anyhow,  knowing  this,  we  know  too 
that  after  the  closest  examination  by  exports   ..." 

"  Aren't  they  the  people  that  make  the  mistakes  ?  " 

Fred  took  no  notice,  but  continued : — "  Not  the  smallest  trace 
of  any  kind  has  been  found  to  justify  such  a  suspicion.  It  is 
not  as  if  we  could  not  identify  every  spot  of  ground  he  must 
have  stood  on  between  The  Cedars  and  the  school-gate."  lie 
paused  a  moment,  to  accumulate  weight  for  his  next  decision, 
then  continued : — "  I  consider  it  as  good  as  proved  that — that 
no  harm  came  to  him  in  the  train.     So  does  Charley." 

"  Because  the  police-officers  had  dogs,  I  suppose.  Dogs  are 
so  convincing,  somehow.  I  like  dogs."  Fred  was  conscious  that 
he  too  had  felt  heartened  up  when  he  heard  of  the  dogs,  although 
he  was  quite  uninformed,  either  way,  as  to  their  efficacy  in  such 
a  case  made  and  provided.  But  he  had  a  suspicion  that  his 
mother  was  alive  to  the  fact  of  his  juniority,  and  was  indeed 
nettled  at  her  confounded  female  shrewdness — a  quality  re- 
sembling ''instinct"  in  animals,  and  quite  inferior  to  human 
reason,  an  attribute  essentially  male.  Also,  his  mother  did  not 
seem  to  him  quite  alive  enough  to  the  cfficiencv  of  Scotland 
Yard. 

To  impress  her  with  this,  he  dwelt  upon  the  thoroughness  of 
the  officer's  search  through  the  old  house  near  Wimbledon.     She 


98  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

seemed  unimpressed,  and  even  disposed  to  call  some  points  of  it 
in  question.  "Did  your — Mr.  Manton  was  it? — turn  the  coal 
over?  You  said  '  looked  behind  it.'  "  But  she  saved  Fred  from 
havino-  to  confess  that  he  had  never  asked  to  know,  bv  adding : — 
"  It  doesn't  matter.  Two  old  caretakers  would  only  have  coal 
by  the  hundredweight."     So  he  got  away  to  another  topic. 

"  By-the-bye,"  said  he,  as  though  it  had  just  occurred  to  him, 
"  he  says — Manton  does — it  would  be  as  well  to  word  the  ad- 
vertisement at  once   .    .    ." 

"Goon.     Why  do  you  stop?" 

"  Why  did  you  say  '  oh  dear ! ' "  For  his  mother  had  uttered 
this  exclamation,  sharp  on  tlie  word  '  advertisement.' 

"■  I  knew  it  was  coming." 

What  occurred  to  Fred  as  reasonable  to  say  was: — ''Then 
why  did  you  say  '  Oh  dear ! '  ?  "  But  he  did  not  say  it.  He  went 
on  with  his  main  theme.  "  As  well  to  word  the  advertisement 
at  once,  to  have  it  ready  in  case  it  should  be  decided  to  use  it," 
said  he. 

"  Oh — then  he  still  thinks  it  may  not  be  wanted?  " 

"  Oh  dear  ves !  This  is  onlv  what  the  doctors  call  proph}'- 
lactic." 

"  I  see.     What  does  your  police  friend  suggest?  " 

"  Just  the  usual  thing.  Missing  from  his  home  So-and-so, 
since  such  a  date.  Then  full  particulars  of  his  age,  dress,  gen- 
eral appearance  and  so  forth,  with  a  word  or  two  as  to  special 
habits,  if  any.  He  recommends  that  nothing  should  be  said 
about  the  manner  of  his  disappearance.  If  we  send  all  par- 
ticulars, he  says  they  will  word  the  advertisement,  and  see  to  its 
insertion.     We  need  know  nothing  ab6ut  it." 

"  I  should  prefer  to  see  how  it  is  worded." 

"  Verv  well.  Their  suggestion  was  onlv  to  spare  need- 
less  .    .■  ." 

"  Needless  pain  to  friends  and  relations.  I  understand."  It 
was  noticeable  that  Fred  often  flinched  from  the  position  while 
she  faced  it.  But  his  cowardice  was  on  her  behalf,  more  than 
his  own. 

"  They  have  nearly  everything  already,"  said  he.  "  I  took 
them  all  the  photographs  I  could  find  at  the  first  go-off.  There 
may  be  others." 

"  He  Avas  not  very  fond  of  being  photographed.  Eather  the 
other  way.  I  don't  think  it  is  any  use  writing  for  more.  I 
wrote  to  Mrs.  Orpen  to  send  any  she  had,  and  she  sent  a  more 
recent  one — a  very  good  snapshot,  taken  by  the  daughter  of  one 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  99 

of  the  masters.  I  forget  her  name."  Mrs.  Carteret  left  her 
chair  by  the  fireplace  to  find  it,  and  brought  it  from  a  drawer 
in  her  writing-desk.  "  I  don't  think  I  told  you.  It's  like,  isn't 
it  ?  "  said  she,  and  sat  down  again  as  before. 

Fred  could  not  take  that  photograph  so  calmly. 

"  Very  good — very  good  indeed !  "  said  he ;  but  uneasily,  as 
the  thought  crossed  his  mind : — "  What  and  where  is  he  now,  who 
was  then  accepted  monarch  of  all  these  boys  ?  "  For  the  picture 
showed  some  melee,  unexplained,  with  the  headmaster  in  the 
midst;  descending  on  a  culprit,  to  all  seeming.  "  Do  you  know 
what  it  was?  "  Fred  asked. 

"  He  caught  two  boys  fighting,  ]\Irs.  Orpen  said  in  her  letter. 
She  did  not  say  how  this  Miss — whatever  her  name  was — came  to 
be  there.  But  there  she  was,  and  there's  the  snapshot.  Yes — I 
think  it  particularly  good."  She  spoke  with  perfect  equanimity, 
as  though  nothing  unusual  were  afoot. 

So  much  so  that  Fred  thought  the  moment  a  good  one  for 
touching  a  point  he  had  fought  shy  of,  without  analysing  his 
reasons.  "  There  is  one  thing  I  promised  to  write  about,"  said 
he.  "  Uncle  Dru's  exact  age.  What  .  .  .  is  it?  "  The  cause 
of  his  wavering  over  these  last  two  words  was  unfortunately 
clear.  He  had  all  but  said  : — "  What  was  it  ?  "  Then,  having 
nearly  made  the  mistake,  he  was  far  too  transparent  to  show  no 
consciousness  of  having  done  so.  He  was  a  very  transparent 
young  man,  was  Fred. 

His  mother's  "  never  mind !  "  had  no  logical  place  in  the  con- 
versation, but  each  knew  the  other's  thought.  She  did  not  mean 
that  the  age  was  of  no  importance — only  that  we  need  not  pick 
and  choose  words  in  face  of  the  facts. 

"■  It  would  be  better  to  have  the  exact  age,"  he  said.  "  If  we 
have  anything  to  go  by.  If  not,  they  say  the  age  he  looks  would 
be  the  best.     I  told  Manton  sixty-one  or  sixty-two." 

"  He  was  more  than  that,"  said  she,  and  he  noticed  the  past 
tense  of  her  verb.  "  He  was  twelve  years  your  father's  senior, 
and  your  father  would  be  over  fifty  now." 

He  had  risen  from  his  chair  and  was  walking  about  the  room 
— it  may  be  that  wrong  tense  needed  a  change  to  slur  it  over — 
and  the  way  that  she  reversed  liis  corrected  form  of  speech 
stopped  him.  He  felt  he  must  rebel  against  this  assumption  of 
— or  acquiescence  in — his  uncle's  death. 

"Mother!     For  God's  sake  don't— rfon^/ " 

"  Don't  what  ?  .  .  .  But  I  know.  Why  should  I  pretend 
not  to  know  ?    You  mean,  why  do  I  believe  him  dead  ?  " 


100  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

"'  Well — yes  !     Why  do  you  ?     Why  sliould  you  ?  " 

'"  Is  it  not  pnougli  tliat  for  thirty  years  he  has  always  been 
in  his  place  on  the  first  day  of  term?  He  was  proud  of  it — 
spoke  of  it  to  me  that  last  time,  the  very  last  time  I  saw  him. 
Not  only  since  his  headmastership — fifteen  years  ago  that  was — 
but  the  whole  time,  since  he  became  Latin  master.  Is  not  that 
enough — at  least  to  make  one  fear   .    .    .  ?  " 

''  Fear — 3'es !     But  to  jump  to  a  certainty — no !  " 

She  did  not  quarrel  with  his  overstatement  of  her  position, 
only  saying :- — "  It  is  hard  to  tell  fear  from  certainty  sometimes 
— fear  enough!  Perhaps  I  am  cowardly.  I  hope  so."  Then, 
as  he  said  nothing,  she  continued : — "  Do  what  1  will,  I  cannot 
remember  a  word  he  has  ever  said — about  friends,  I  mean — to 
warrant  your  idea  of  the  intercepting  passenger  on  the  rail.  If 
such  a  person  had  existed — a  person  who  could  influence  his 
return  to  the  school  at  such  a  time — he  must  have  mentioned 
him,  to  you  or  to  me." 

"  Or  her."  He  was  only  speaking  of  a  supplemental  possi- 
bility. 

But  she  had  a  tired  smile  for  this  possible  her,  as  too  great 
an  absurdity.  "■  I  wish  1  could  think  it  was  .  .  .  that  kind  of 
thing,"  said  she.     "  But — vour  uncle  I  " 

"  I  didn't  mean  that." 

"  You  might  have.     Age  is  nothing." 

"  I  know  age  is  nothing.  But  I  was  not  thinking  of  that 
kind  of  thing  at  all.  My  idea  was  some  old  friend  he  hadn't 
met  for  years.  It  need  not  have  been  the  boat.  You  know  that 
idea.     I  told  you  ?  " 

"  Oh  dear  yes,  /  know.  But  it's  impossible — that's  all  I  can 
say.  You  see  he  was  talking,  that  Saturday  afternoon,  of  the 
absolute  necessity  for  being  in  his  place  on  ^londay.  You  did 
not  hear  him.     1  did." 

Fred  felt  that  speculation  only  made  matters  worse.  It  never 
bore  the  light  of  day.  But  he  would  have  given  a  world,  had  he 
possessed  one,  to  see  the  strain  of  anxiety  pass  from  his  mother's 
face.  Changing  the  subject  to  something  quite  different  struck 
him  as  out  of  })lace — probably  also  impossible.  The  nightmare 
of  uncertainty,  in  its  worst  form,  had  possession  of  them;  and 
timid  remedies  were  worse  than  none.  He  could  not  sit  still 
and  say  nothing,  yet  he  could  only  speak  of  his  tmcle.  What  did 
this  leave  him,  now  that  nothing  was  to  be  hoped  for  from  new 
surmises  about  the  mystery?     \\ltat  was  it  safe  to  talk  about? 

Something  crossed  liis  mind — a  question  he  had  often  thought 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  101 

to  ask  his  mother,  but  never  ventured  on.  He  could  see  no  reason 
why  he  should  not  do  so,  now.  He  threw  out  an  initial: — "I 
wonder  wdiy   ..."  and  stopped  short. 

''  You  wonder  why  what,  Fred  dear  ?  " 

"  I  wonder  why  Uncle  Drii  never  married." 

"•'  Are  you  sure  he  never  did?  " 

Fred  started.  "  I  thought  everyone  knew  he  never  did,"  said 
he.     "But  did  he?" 

"'  I  don't  know."  This  answer,  quietly  given,  with  perfect 
self-command,  took  Fred  very  much  aback.  His  mother  con- 
tinued : — "  You  needn't  look  so  dumbfoundered.  Ecmembcr 
that  your  uncle  was  quite  old  enough  to  be  a  widower  when 
your  father's  family  came  to  live  next  door  to  us.  I  got  to 
know  them  over  the  wall.  But  I  was  the  merest  child  then — 
a  chit  under  thirteen.  However,  I  don't  believe  it  was  then,  but 
later.  Only  I  knew  nothing  about  it."  She  paused  a  little, 
and  then  said  suddenly: — "Only  remember — I  can't  answer  for 
it  that  he  was  ever  married.  Or  never.  I  can't  answer  for 
anything  either  way.  I  don't  know."  Here  Fred  said : — "  Oli, 
I  see,"  and  something  in  his  tone  made  her  reply  rather  short 
and  decisive.  "  No — I'm  not  sure  that  you  do.  It  was  a  love- 
affair." 

Fred  hastened  to  disclaim  any  intention  of  suggesting  that  he 
had  inferred  an  irregularity,  and  his  mother  let  the  point  pass. 
But  an  irregularity  would  have  accounted  for  silence  and  oblivion 
a  generation  later,  and  tliere  seemed  no  reason  for  veiling  a 
blameless  passion  that  had  ended  in  frustration  somehow  or 
other.  So  Fred's  curiosity  was  roused,  and  after  one  or  two  not 
very  successful  attempts  to  get  at  this  love-affair  that  might  or 
might  not  have  ended  in  a  marriage,  he  asked  his  mother  point- 
blank  what  his  father's  version  of  the  story  had  been.  He 
must  have  known  all  about  it. 

"  I  never  spoke  a  single  word  to  him  on  the  subject,"  was 
the  reply.  But  she  showed  her  consciousness  that  this  answer 
might  be  incredible.  "  Better  ask  whv,  Fred.  You  know  vou 
mean  why,"  said  she  after  a  pause. 

"  Yes — I  mean  why,"  said  he.  "  But  I  should  not  have  said 
it,  because   ..." 

"  Because  you  didn't  want  to  say  your  mother  told  stories. 
Good  boy !  "  He  had  suspended  an  uncertain  walk  about  the 
room,  and  was  leaning  on  her  chair  back.  She  turned  round  and 
kissed  him,  for  approval  or  forgiveness ;  then  resumed : — "  But 
I'll  tell  you  why.     There  was  a  good   reason — an  exceptional 


102  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

one.  My  motlicr,  wlio  told  mc,  made  me  promise  not  to  speak 
of  it  to  a  living  soul.  You  were  not  born  or  thought  of  when 
she  told  me.     So  you  don't  count." 

"  She  may  have  meant  any  living  soul  present  or  future." 

"  She  may  have.  I  know  what  I  meant  when  I  made  the 
promise.  An3diow,  I  see  no  reason  for  not  telling  you,  now. 
What  can  it  matter,  when  he  .  .  .  ?  "  She  left  this  unfinished, 
but  Fred  knew  her  meaning.  "  I  saw  it  was  your  father  she 
was  thinking  of,  and  I  kept  my  promise.  For  I  never  said  a 
word  to  him  about  it,  nor  he  to  me.     I  doubt  if  he  ever  knew." 

"  You  haven't  told  me  exactly  what  grandmamma  said. 
Perhaps  you  would  rather  not  ?  " 

"  I  cannot  see  Avhy  1  should  not.  1  feel  so  very  sure  the 
prohibition  applied  to  3^our  father."  But  she  seemed  still  in 
doubt  whether  she  might  break  her  promise. 

He  felt  he  could  not  help  to  a  decision,  either  way.  So,  not 
to  sit  silent,  he  said : — "  Grandmamma  and  Uncle  Dru  were 
very  great  friends  ?  " 

"  Yes — he  told  her  everything.  That  is  how  he  came  to  take 
her  into  his  confidence  about  this  ...  I  think  I  may  tell 
you." 

"  Yes — but  not  if  you   ..." 

"  I  think  I  may.  It  is  all  to  his  credit.  He  fell  desperately 
in  love  with  a  very  young  girl,  and  thought  he  was  bound  to  wait 
till  she  was  old  enough — for  him  to  speak,  I  mean.  In  the  mean- 
while she  naturally  got  herself  appropriated  by  some  other  man, 
who  wasn't  so  scrupulous.  Knowing  your  uncle  as  I  did,  I  am 
"hot  the  least  surprised  at  his  taking  his  disappointment  so  bit- 
terly to  heart.  Some  men  are  like  that,  and  they  are  the  best 
men.     But  it's  a  pity." 

Fred  embraced  the  opportunity  of  showing  his  wide  knowl- 
edge of  Man  and  Woman,  and  the  ways  of  those  strange  crea- 
tures. "  Not  by  any  means  an  uncommon  case ! "  he  said, 
nodding  sagaciously. 

His  mother  pursued  the  theme.  "  One  thing  did  surprise  me 
though — that  he  took  no  warning  from  what  was  going  on  under 
his  very  eyes.  Surely  your  dear  father  and  I  were  young 
enough— couple  of  young  monkeys ! — when  we  began.  No — age 
has  nothing  to  do  with  it.     Nothing  whatever !  " 

Fred  could  not  associate  ideas  of  youth  and  romance,  dawning 
passion,  jealousies,  reconciliations,  and  so  forth,  with  those 
prosaic  things  people's  parents;  especially  his  own.  The  story 
believes  this  frame  of  mind  to  be  not  infrequent  in  youth.     It 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  103 

had    its    share    in    causing    this    young    man    to    abstain    from 
comment. 

"  ^STothing  whatever ! "  his  mother  repeated^  after  a  pause. 
'•'  This  must  all  have  taken  j^lace  in  the  first  year  of  my  ac- 
quaintance with  your  father.  At  least,  your  grandmamma  said 
nothing  of  the  exact  time,  but  I  had  the  impression  it  was  about 
then.  He  did  not  tell  her— so  she  said — till  some  time  after  we 
were  married.  I  cannot  imagine  why  she  was  so  anxious  I 
should  tell  your  father  nothing  about  it.  But  she  was  so  very 
emphatic  that  I  actually  did  as  she  wished,  and  held  my  tongue. 
It  wasn't  easy." 

"No,  by  George!"  said  Fred;  but  seriously,  for  the  circum- 
stances were  against  trivial  speech.  "  Didn't  she — or  perliaps 
she  did  and  you  wouldn't  like  to  tell  me— tell  you  ^^'ho  the  girl 
was  ?  " 

Mrs.  Carteret  shook  her  head.  "  She  refused  to.  Said  it  was 
absolutely  out  of  the  question  that  I  should  know.  She  wouldn't 
say  why.  But  of  course  there  may  have  been  many  reasons." 
Many  indeed,  and  the  most  incredible  one  of  all  more  credible 
than  the  true  reason !  Never  had  the  mind  of  a  woman  been 
more  unsuspicious,  or  through  a  longer  term,  than  that  of  this 
unsuspecting  lady. 

And  indeed  her  son  was  just  as  unsuspicious  of  the  truth  as 
she.  So  much  so  that  his  mind,  restlessly  on  the  alert  to  discover 
causes  of  his  uncle's  disappearance,  jumped  at  this  incident  of 
thirty-odd  years  ago,  and  connected  the  two  things  together. 
What  his  mother  had  just  said  was  so  true — that  age  was  noth- 
ing.    If  he  could  only  find  out  who  that  girl  was ! 

"  Mother !  "  said  he,  abruptly. 

"  Yes — my  dear !  " 

"Have  you  no  guess  who  she  was?  I  have  a  reason  for 
asking." 

"  What  is  your  reason  for  asking  ?  "  She  spoke  sedatel}^  with 
something  of  fatigue.  But  were  not  the  clock-hands  near  on 
midnisrht  ? 

"  She  might  have  something  to  do  with  it — this  girl." 

"  With  what?  " 

"  With  Uncle  Dru's  disappearance." 

"  Wliat  nonsense  !  " 

"  No — don't  say  that.  Think  it  over.  How  old  would  she  be 
now   .    .    .  ?     Within  a  year  or  so  will  do." 

Mrs.  Carteret  thought.  "  Between  forty-five  and  fifty,  some- 
where," said  she. 


104  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

"  Well — that  would  do !  Then,  suppose  her  husband  has  died 
suddenly !  " 

'•  You  can't  work  it  that  way.  She  is  a  widow — if  she  is 
living — has  been  a  widow  for  years.     I  can  tell  you  that  much." 

"  How  do  you  know  ?  " 

'*  My  mother  said  so  the  last  time  we  spoke  of  it.  I  remember 
lier  saying  so  distinctly.  Mamma  has  been  dead  seven  years. 
Yes — let  me  see  I  Your  father  has  been  dead  eleven  vears,  and 
it  was  in  the  time  between.  I  recollect  thinking  to  myself: — 
'  Now  here  is  a  chance  for  a  little  happiness! '  I  said  so  to  her, 
or  something  like  it." 

"And  M-hat  did  ^he  say?" 

"  I  was  trying  to  think.  .  ,  .  Xo — she  said  nothing  except 
that  it  was  absolutely  impossible.  I  think  I  tried  then — j'es,  I 
did — to  <]:Qt  from  her  who  she  was.  I  had  some  crazy  idea  that 
if  I  could  only  get  at  her,  even  then,  I  might  do  something  to 
bring  it  about.  But  she  would  say  nothing,  except  that  it  was 
quite  out  of  the  question,  and  I  had  better  give  up  the  idea.  I 
cannot  understand  how  she  could  be  so  positive  on  the  point. 
But  she  was." 

"  No — that's  a  puzzler.  How  could  grandmamma  know  ?  " 
Fred  racked  his  brains  in  the  pause  which  followed,  and  could 
think  of  only  one  solution.  "  The  widow  must  have  got  herself 
fixed  up  with  some  other  man.     That's  the  only  way  out." 

"  No — it  wasn't  that.  I  can't  say  why  exactly.  I  put  it  down 
to  something  your  uncle  had  said  to  her — someihing  about  his 
own  feelings.  You  see,  she  knew  him  so  much  better  than  I 
<lid.     So  much  better  than  anyone !  " 

Fred  would  not  give  it  up.  "  Suppose  Uncle  Dru's  ideas  had 
changed  !  "  said  he. 

"  After  all  these  vears !  Whv  not  when  her  husband  died,  if 
at  all?" 

Fred  could  not  utilise  his  uncle's  individualities,  strong  as 
they  were,  beyond  a  certain  limit.  The  time  was  too  long.  But 
he  had  not  run  through  all  his  possibilities.  '"  Suppose  the  lady's 
ideas  had  changed?"  he  said.  "I  mean,  suppose  she  stuck  out 
at  first,  and  gave  in  in  the  end?" 

"  That  niiglit  be,"'  said  his  mother.  But  the  way  she  yawned 
showed  that  this  new  theory  had  very  little  weight  with  her. 

H  hung  about  Fred's  mind,  nevertheless. 

And  the  next  morning,  at  breakfast  in  his  friend's  chambers, 
he  broached  it  as  promising,  if  not  one  to  lean  heavily  on. 
Certainly  not  a  broken  reed — he  would  go  that  far ! 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  105 

Mr.  Snaith  seemed  impressed,  but  could  not  shut  liis  eyes  to 
the  mimber  of  improbal)ilities  we  had  to  swallo'tv  in  order  to  make 
this  theory  wash.  Perhaps  had  he  been  talking  to  one  of  his 
partners  he  would  have  mixed  his  metaphors  less.  But  Fred 
didn't  matter !  We  had  to  suppose,  he  said,  either  that  Dr. 
Carteret's  fidelity  to  his  first  love  had  had  a  very  intermittent 
character,  or  that  her  own  has  shown  a  miraculous  stability. 
He  was  not  going  to  pretend  that  instances  were  not  common 
— indeed,  we  heard  of  cases  every  day — of  widows  who  kept  the 
memory  of  their  late  lamenteds  alive  to  the  end  of  their  own  lease 
of  life.^  What  seemed  to  him  so  unlikely  was  that  if  it  lived  for 
twelve  or  fifteen  years  of  this  period  it  should  not  last  out  the 
rest  of  it.  He  altogether  scouted  the  idea  that  Dr.  Carteret 
would  keep  silence — his  expression  was  "  bottle  up  " — all  that 
time.  The  reasonable  course  for  him  would  have  been  to  post- 
pone his  suit  no  longer  than  was  due  to  the  bare  requirements  of 
respect  for  the  departed. 

Fred  quite  acquiesced  in  this,  but  "  pointed  out "  that 
although  his  grandmother,  their  only  informant,  knew  that  this 
lady  had  lost  her  liusband,  there  was  nothing  to  show  that  she 
had  not  married  again,  and  lost  her  second  husband  recently. 
To  account  for  anything  so  contrary  to  experience  as  the  dis- 
appearance of  his  uncle,  we  were  driven  to  improbable  supposi- 
tions; not  to  impossible  ones,  he  admitted.  One  of  the  least 
improbable  seemed  to  him  to  be  that  which  connected  this  dis- 
appearance somehow  with  this  romance  of  his  uncle's  early  life. 
Detailslnight  stand  over.  The  young  man  seemed  rather  re- 
lieved to  let  them  do  so. 

His  friend  seemed  only  half  convinced.  ''  What  does  your 
young  woman  think  about  it  ?  "  said  he. 

"  I  haven't  seen  her." 

"  Poor  beggar !  Of  course  seeing  her  means  a  railway  jour- 
ney. I  see  mine  every  day,  pretty  nearly.  P'r'aps  I'm  tempting 
Providence." 

"  How  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"Well — every  day  is  coming  it  rather  strong,  isn't  it?  She 
don't  say  so,  you  know.  At  least,  only  in  jest  of  course.  I  know 
when  she's  in  jest,  and  when  she's  in  earnest."  In  spite  of  which 
knowledge,  he  seemed  to  think  a  word  of  confirmation  not  mis- 
placed : — "  I  know  she's  in  earnest  this  time  by  the  way  she  talks 
about  you  and  Miss  Fraser.  Of  course  she  talks  more  freely  by 
hooking  it  on  to  third  parties." 


106  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

Fred  shovv'ed  an  aroused  interest.  "  Wliat  does  she  say  about 
me  and  Cintra?  "  said  he. 

"^  Well — about  this  very  matter  of  being  so  far  off.  I  was 
telling  her  what  a  devil  of  a  distance  off  you  were,  and  she  really 
seemed  to  think  it  a  worse  Job  than  I  did,  myself.  Quite  took 
it  to  heart,  don't  you  know?  " 

"  What  did  she  say  ?  "  Very  much  interested  indeed,  was 
Frederic. 

''  I  don't  suppose  Cit  cries  her  eyes  out  about  my  not  being 
there  every  five  minutes.  Anyhow,  I'm  due  there  on  Sunday. 
Just  lately,  I've  made  a  point  of  being  with  my  mother  a  good 
deal   .    .    .  you  understand?     One  must." 

Mr.  Snaith  hastened  to  show  appreciation  of  his  friend's  filial 
devotion.     He  saw,  old  fellow, — of  course,  of  course ! 

"  Besides,  the  fact  is  .  .  . "  Fred  glanced  at  a  door  no 
human  creature  could  possibly  have  come  in  at,  to  express 
exclusion  of  the  outer  world  from  a  solemn  confidence.  "  The 
fact  is  .  .  .  only  you  quite  understand,  Cbarley,  I  wouldn't 
say  this  to  anyone  but  you   ..." 

"  I'm  mum."  Mr.  Snaith  touched  lips  closed  for  the  purpose 
with  a  resolute  forefinger. 

"■  Well,  the  fact  is,  that  at  The  Jessamines — that's  the  name 
of  the  Professor's  house,  you  know — the  family  is  rather  heavily 
in  evidence." 

"  I  understand."  ^Mr.  Snaith  commiserates  his  friend. 
"  Like  to  have  her  rather  more  to  yourself." 

"  Ye-es ! — that  sort  of  thing.  I  must  confess,  Charley,  to 
tliinking  you  a  lucky  beggar.  Only  one  solitary  maternal  parent 
to  keep  at  bay!  " 

Charley  seems  to  make  some  mental  reservation.  "  She's — 
she's  an  awfully  capacious  one,"  he  says,  rather  ruefully. 

Fred  is  not  disposed  to  make  allowances.  ''  I  would  sooner 
have  any  amount  of  capacious  mothers  than  a  little  snippy 
tweetly  stepmother,  always  ailing.  That's  what  she  is — always 
ailing.  And  as  if  that  wasn't  enough,  she's  unselfish  and  con- 
siderate." 

''  Knits  you  comforters.     I  know." 

"  Exactly.  Then  there's  her  cub,  who  has  been  promised  to 
be  allowed  to  sit  on  your  knee — as  likely  as  not.  Then  there's 
an  older  cub,  a  school-cub,  whose  aunt  gave  him  a  watcb,  and 
he  immediately  took  it  to  pieces  and  put  it  together 
again." 

"  That  doesn't  hurt  you." 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  107 

"  It  wouldn't,  if  he  didn't  want  me  to  make  it  go.  He  thinks 
— in  fact  Cit  does,  and  they  all  do — that  an  engineer  ought  to  be 
able  to  make  watches  go.  I  can't.  And  the  Devil  himself 
couldn't  make  this  one  go." 

"  What  sort  of  chap's  the  Professor  ?  " 

"  I  don't  half  dislike  the  Professor.  Only  I  wish  when  he 
sees  me  he  wouldn't  always  say : — '  Well,  Mr.  Frederic,  any  new 
patents  ? ' " 

"  What  harm  does  that  do  you?  " 

"  Well-1-1 !  Doesn't  it  rather  seem  to  imply  that  I'm  throw- 
ing away  money  on  patents  ?  " 

'"'  It  might  bear  that  interpretation." 

Fred  got  away  from  the  subject.  ''  Then  of  course  there's 
Elbows.  Candidly,  Charley,  I  shouldn't  be  able  to  stand  Elbows, 
if  my  mother  wasn't  so  fond  of  her.  I  really  shouldn't.  I 
should  strike." 

"  So  should  I,  mother  or  no  !    Beast  of  a  girl !  " 

"  You  see,  what's  so  irritating  about  Elbows  is  that  with  so 
many  people — my  mother's  only  one  instance — she  passes  for  a 
nice  girl.  And  when  people  are  like  that  it's  perfectly  useless  to 
reason  with  them." 

"  Perfectly."  Mr.  Charley  was  qualifying  a  small  morning 
cigar  for  its  mission  in  life,  which  made  his  speech  brief.  As 
soon  as  he  had  lighted  it  and  was  convinced  it  would  draw,  he 
appeared  to  feel  that  he  ought  to  make  up  for  lost  time,  and 
contribute  to  the  conversation.  He  began : — '''  What  a  man 
notices,  about  a  girl  ..."  and  was  arrested  by  the  fact  that 
he  had  not  thought  of  what  he  was  going  to  say. 

Fred  guessed.  "Way  she  does  her  hair?"  A  soito-voce 
interjection,  as  though  he  knew  perfectly  well  what  was  coming. 

But  he  guessed  wrong.  For  his  friend  shook  his  head  with 
the  air  of  the  best  authority,  and  corrected  him.  '•'  Wasn't  going 
to  say  that,"  said  he.  "  I  was  going  to  say  that  what  a  man 
notices  about  a  girl  is  her  attitude.  Particularly  about  chaps. 
See  what  I  mean?  " 

Fred  said  he  did,  but  he  didn't.  A  remark  he  made,  to  the 
effect  that  they — girls,  to  wit — were  very  sharp,  did  not  seem  to 
satisfy  his  hearer,  who  proceeded  to  elucidation.  "  When  1  say 
attitude/'  he  said,  "I  refer  to  the  sort  of  thing  which — the  sort 
of  thing  which  is  perhaps  best  described  by  indicating  Miss 
Eraser's  as  a  case  in  point." 

"  I  should  let  it  go  at  that,  Charley,  if  I  was  you,"  said  Fred. 
"  You  see,  whenever  I  go  to  The  Jessamines  I  have  to  be  civil 


108  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

to  p]]bows,  who  really  is — who  really  is — exactly  like  what  you 
say.  As  to  my  mother,  it's  a  clear  case-  of  infatuation.  That's 
what  it  is — just  simple  infatuation.  But  women  arc  always  the 
worst  judges  of  women.  .  .  .  Let  me  see — what  were  we  talk- 
infj  about?  " 

This  could  only  refer  to  the  last  topic  but  one.  Mr.  Snaith 
located  it.  ''  Your  last  theory  about  your  uncle.  I  asked  what 
your  young  woman  thought.  It's  important  to  know  what  the 
women  think  about  things  of  this  sort.     leather  their  line." 

"  I  shall  see  her  on  Sunday.  Meanwhile  .  .  .  Well,  of 
course  you  won't  talk  about  it  ?  " 

"Oh  no — YOU  can  rely  on  me.     But  ..." 

"What?"^ 

'•'  Nothing." 

"  You  were  going  to  say  something  ?  " 

"  Xo,  1  wasn't  ...  at  least — it  certainly  did  just  cross  my 
mind.  Would  you  particularly  object  to  my  mentioning  it  to 
Lucy?  In  the  strictest  confidence,  you  know."  Fred  looked 
doubtful.  "  You've  no  idea  what  a — what  an  instinctive  shrewd- 
ness she  has  about  things  of  this  sort!  A  kind  of  insight.  It's 
quite  phenomenal.  .  .  ,  However,  not  if  you  don't  like !  "  For 
the  uncertainty  lingered  on  Fred's  face. 

Was  a  phenomenal  insight  into  "  things  of  this  sort,"  by  a 
young  lady  he  had  only  seen  twice,  a  sufficient  reason  for  taking 
her  into  the  inner  sanctum  of  a  chapter  of  private  family  history 
which  his  mother  had  kept  silence  about  for  years?  Surely  not, 
said  common  sense  and  experience.  Fred  took  exception  to  their 
decision,  on  the  grounds  that  the  young  lady  had  a  slim  but 
well-rounded  figure,  expressive  black  eyes,  and  a  faultless  set  of 
pearly  teeth.  Not  that  he  admitted  that  he  was  under  tlie 
influence  of  these  items  of  her  total.  They  were  merely  present 
to  his  imagination  when  he  decided  that  he  might  rely  on  his 
friend's  judgment,  and  his  guarantee  of  strict  confidence.  After 
all,  he  would  have  to  take  someone  into  his  confidence.  Were 
the  detectives  of  Scotland  Yard  alone  worthy  of  admission  into 
its  precincts? 

He  hesitated  where  hesitation  makes  a  change  of  mind  impos- 
sible. The  slightest  wavering,  once  interpreted  into  concession, 
may  not  be  harked  back  upon.  Fred  made  matters  worse  by 
suggesting  conditions.  "  You'll  take  care  of  that.  .  .  .  Miss 
Hinchlilfe  thoroughly  understands  that  it  isn't  to  be  mentioned 
to  a  living  soul.     You  are  sure  she's  to  be  trusted?  " 

'■'  Oh  dear  yes — she's  Secrocv   itself.      As  safe  as  the  Lord 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  109 

Chancellor."  Would  Fred  have  felt  reassured  by  this  if  it  had 
not  been  for  those  qualifications  the  story  has  just  inventoried — 
those  eyes  and  teeth  and  so  forth?  Probably  not.  Fred  was 
much  readier  to  credit  this  young  lady  with  every  virtue  her 
lover  chose  to  vouch  for,  than — for  instance — his  own  fiancee 
would  have  been. 

Indeed,  when  Fred  came  to  think  it  out,  he  saw  that  it  would 
be  almost  impossible  not  to  talk  over  this  new  way  of  accounting 
for  the  mystery  to  Cintra,  and  very  difficult  to  keep  her  ob- 
jectionable sister  from  the  knowledge  of  it. 

His  mother  had  seen  the  desirability  of  a  reserved  statement 
of  the  new  suspicion  to  the  official  investigators,  and  Charley  had 
recommended  a  full  one.  So  Fred's  clear  course  was  to  seek  out 
Mr.  Manton  at  Scotland  Yard  and  put  him  in  possession  of  the 
facts.  He  did  so,  and  was  not  a  little  disgusted  to  find  that  the 
facts,  all  told,  amounted  to  so  very  little.  All  that  had  made  his 
last  solution  of  the  mystery  seem  so  plausible  when  his  imagina- 
tion v/as  free  to  run  riot  among  mere  possibilities,  became  thin 
and  vanished  when  he  was  face  to  face  with  the  task  of  wording 
a  written  memorandum  of  it  for  official  use.  He  was  reminded 
of  the  way  in  which  some  of  his  mechanical  inventions  had 
shovv'n  their  weak  points  when  put  to  the  test  of  a  full  specifi- 
cation. What  had  he  to  tell,  after  all,  that  added  anything  to 
the  facts  already  in  possession  of  the  detectives?  Nothing  but 
that  his  mother  knew  that  his  uncle  had  been  in  love  with  a 
girl  early  in  life,  and  had  apparently  never  contemplated  mar- 
riage later;  that  this  young  lady  had  married,  had  become  a 
widow,  and  might  or  might  not  have  married  again.  It 
amounted  to  nothing.  We  did  not  know — did  not  even  suspect 
— who  the  lady  was.  If  we  had  known,  and  had  found  on 
enquiry  that  she  too  had  disappeared  at  about  the  same  time, 
there  might  have  been  reason  for  connecting  the  two  things  to- 
gether. As  it  was,  in  Mr.  Manton's  opinion,  Mrs.  Carteret's 
information  about  her  brother-in-law's  early  love-affair  left  us 
exactly  whore  we  were  before. 

"  I  must  mention  to  you,  Mr.  Carteret,"  said  the  detective, 
when  he  had  made  a  note  of  all  that  Fred  had  to  tell,  except  a 
good  many  of  that  young  man's  inferences,  "  that  in  my  own 
opinion  the  old  advice  to  look  for  the  woman  at  the  bottom  of 
any  mischief   ..." 

■"  I  know,"  said  Fred,  " '  Cherchez  la  femmel '  " 

"■  I  believe  that  is  the  French  for  it,"  said  Manton,  not  with- 
out commiseration  for  a  race  condemned  to  the  use  of  such  a 

8 


110  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

language.     He  picked   up   his   last   sentence: — ".    .    .   At   tiie 
bottom  of  any  mischief.     Well — it  doesn't  hold  good." 

"  Doesn't  hold  good  ?  " 

"  Not  in  this  case,  at  any  rate.  Consider  the  motives  of  the 
parties  concerned.  Here  we  have  your  uncle,  an  old  gentleman 
of  absolutely  unblemished  reputation.    ..." 

"  Absolutely ! " 

"  Clerk  in  holy  orders — that  sort  of  thing — and  at  the  head  of 
an  establishment  that  would  be  simply  ruined,  perhaps  perma- 
nently, by  the  very  smallest  slur  upon  his  moral  character.  ..." 

"  Quite  an  impossibility  !     Thing  couldn't  be." 

"  Right  you  are.  Sir.  But  how  about  his  motive  for  secrecy, 
if  there  was  nothing  to  conceal?  "  Mr.  Manton  made  a  marginal 
note  with  a  pencil  on  an  open  paper  before  him,  as  if  he  had 
some  time  to  spare  before  Fred  answered. 

He  had,  for  it  was  quite  fifteen  seconds  by  the  clock-tick  before 
that  young  man  said : — "  I  see.  Concealment  would  do  him 
double  the  harm  of  publicity,  in  any  case  one  can  imagine." 
But  Fred  would  not  give  it  up  altogether.  Might  there  not  be 
some  reason  on  the  lady's  side,  he  suggested. 

"  To  conceal  what  ?  A  marriage  ?  I  think  you'll  find  that 
idea  won't  bear  handling,  ]\Ir.  Carteret." 

Fred  did,  apparently.  At  least,  he  made  no  attempt  to  handle 
it.  He  produced  the  photograph  his  mother  had  given  him, 
which  interested  Mr.  Manton.  He  remarked  that  it  was  "  a 
good  job  for  the  big  'un "  that  the  headmaster  happened  to 
come  by,  insomuch  as  it  was  evident  that  "  the  little  'un  was 
going  to  lick."  Fred  could  not  help  thinking  that  the  detec- 
tive's interest  in  the  case  had  flagged  since  the  chances  of  a 
murder  had  been  minimised. 

However,  he  handed  him  such  additional  particulars  for  the 
advertisement  as  had  arisen  from  his  conversation  with  his 
mother,  and  went  his  way.  He  felt  very  desoeuvre  and  purpose- 
less as  he  sauntered  up  Whitehall.  Justifiably  so ;  for  is  any  end 
looser  than  his  who  is  brought  to  a  standstill  in  a  search  for  one 
who  has  vanished  and  left  no  clue?  The  fear  was  beginning  to 
grow  on  him  tliat  a  month  hence — a  year  hence  perhaps — would 
find  this  terrible  search  as  fruitless  as  it  had  been  hitherto.  It 
seemed  now  as  thous-h  the  searchers  would  be  reduced  to  the 
pitiful  inactivity  of  waiting  for  something  to  turn  up,  with  such 
consolation  as  was  derival)le  from  the  consciousness  of  an  adver- 
tisement at  stated  intervals. 

A  hideous  thought  struck  him.      The  last  insertion  of  that 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  111 

advertisement  must  come.  It  could  not  go  on  for  ever.  Could 
any  excuse  for  discontinuing  it  be  found  that  would  not  also  be 
a  confession  that  the  case  was  hopeless  ? 

Eeturning  restlessly  to  Maida  Yale  in  preference  to  making 
a  pretence  of  work  at  his  chambers,  he  found  there  visitors :  Mrs. 
Orpen,  the  matron  of  the  now  headmasterless  school,  and  the 
second  master,  a  pallid  gentleman  who  looked  as  if  he  had  been 
shut  flat  between  boards,  and  been  ill  set  up  by  a  miracle  which 
had  not  done  itself  justice.  As  for  Mrs,  Orpen,  any  widow  of 
forty-odd  is  buxom,  until  the  contrary  is  stated;  and  this  need 
not  be  done,  in  her  case.  Neither  need  corpulence  be  ascribed 
to  her.  She  was  the  very  person  you  would  have  jumped  at  for 
a  housekeeper,  had  she  come  to  enquire  about  your  place.  Fred's 
mental  note  about  her  was  that  she  was  exactly  like  his  recol- 
lections of  her  nine  years  ago  when  he  said  farewell  to  the 
school  and  schoolbojdiood.  To  his  dissatisfaction,  she  made  this 
same  remark  about  him  before  he  had  arranged  a  way  of  saying 
it  to  her  without  personality.  He  resented  it  as  patronising,  but 
was  unable  to  protest.  There  is  a  flavour  of  Olympus  in  the 
personnel  of  all  our  schools,  even  its  matrons,  which  no  late- 
acquired  maturity  on  our  part  can  ignore.  Fred  felt  helpless, 
and  junior,  in  the  presence  of  Mother  Orpy  Porpy,  as  she  was 
called  in  his  time,  and  would  have  felt  more  so  if  during  the 
last  year  of  his  pupilage  he  had  not  been  a,  sixth-form  boy. 
That  just  saved  his  dignity. 

On  the  other  hand,  nothing  could  exceed  his  contempt  for  the 
pallid  gentleman,  who  had  come  in  at  the  school  since  his  time; 
taking  the  place  of  a  truly  great  creature,  who  had  accepted  the 
headship  of  a  collegiate  institution,  in  Canada.  Both  were 
mathematicians,  certainly,  and  both  high  wranglers.  But  the 
fact  that  old  Skinner  Street — the  name  by  which  Mr.  Stilling- 
fleet,  the  Canadian,  had  been  known  to  the  boys  of  Fred's  day 
— was  two  places  lower  in  the  Tripos  than  this  flat  man,  Threep- 
well,  was  as  nothing  against  the  fact  that  Fred  had  studied 
geometry  and  algebra  under  the  auspices  of  the  former.  That 
is  what  had  made  him  great  in  Fred's  eyes,  and  that  is  what 
makes  all  the  instructors  of  our  own  youth  great  in  ours.  They 
have  instructed  Us — or  have  failed  in  the  attempt,  as  may  be. 
Anyhow,  Fred  almost  ignored  Mr.  Threepwell.  To  be  sure,  his 
upper  front'  teeth  stuck  out  like  tusks,  and  that  may  have  had 
something  to  do  with  it. 

Fred  came  in  on  a  conversation  conducted  in  undertones.  For 
the  shadow  of  the  cause  of  this  visit  hung  heavy  over  it. 


112  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

"  Go  on,  please,"  said  his  mother  to  Mrs.  Orpen,  when  his 
incoming  had  subsided.  "  Where  you  left  off,  you  know.  You 
were  just  saying  he  had  spoken  of  coming  back  on  the  Saturday 
when  he  came  up  to  town  a  week  before." 

"  He  did  so.  And  he  was  most  emphatic  I  should  forward 
no  letters  after  the  last  post  on  Thursday.  Last  Easter  a  letter 
was  delayed  till  a  late  delivery  on  Saturday,  and  did  not  reach 
the  Doctor  till  Monday  afternoon.  He  was  wishful  to  guard 
against  such  a  thing  happening  again.  His  very  last  words  to 
me  were: — 'Remember,  Mrs.  Orpen!  Nothing  after  the  last 
post  on  Thursday  this  time  ! '  " 

Could  anything  be  more  prohibitive  of  theories  based  on  a 
supposition  that  the  Doctor  had  changed  his  destination  at  the 
last  moment?  As  though  she  were  aware  that  such  theories  were 
afloat,  Mrs.  Orpen  added : — "  And  besides,  there  was  his  letter  to 
me  on  the  Saturday  saying  to  have  a  chop  ready." 

Mr.  Threepwell  had  something  to  say,  apparently,  and  in 
answer  to  Mrs.  Orpen's :  "  Yes — read  your  letter,"  produced  one, 
evidently  in  the  Doctor's  handwriting,  and  read  the  passage: — 
"  '  I  am  sorry  to  be  unable  to  get  back  earlier  on  Saturday,  and 
must  leave  the  arrangements  to  you.'  That  only  refers  to  some 
small  matters  I  wanted  him  to  discuss  with  me.  This  is  the  im- 
portant part  .  .  .  h'm — h'm : — '  I  have  promised  to  look  over 
a  house  my  nephew  wishes  to  take,  and  shall  have  no  oppor- 
tunity except  on  Saturday  afternoon.     It  will  make  me  late.' " 

"  Go  on  reading,"  said  Mrs.  Orpen.  For  the  gentleman  was 
folding  up  the  letter  to  put  it  in  his  pocket. 

"  I  doubt  Dr.  Carteret  having  intended  that  what  follows 
should  be  read  to   ...   to  his  family." 

"  Now  you  must  read  it,  having  said  that,  or  what  will  Mrs. 
Carteret  and  her  son  think  ?  " 

Both  agreed  to  this,  conjointly.  And  Mrs.  Carteret  observed 
that  she  was  sure  her  brother-in-law  would  never  have  Avritten 
anything  about  his  family  that  he  would  not  have  said.  "  I 
assure  you,"  said  she,  "  that  my  poor  brother  was  not  in  the  habit 
of  softening  things  to  spare  his  hearers.  He  was  always  most 
plain-spoken.  Pray  read  all  he  said  about  us."  It  was  pain- 
fully noticeable  that  she  alone  spoke  of  the  vanished  man  as 
if  he  must  be  dead;  one  quite  passed  away,  though  not  to  be  for- 
gotten.    She  had  made  up  her  mind,  that  was  all.    ' 

"  You  have  the  right  to  decide  this  point,  and  it  is  not  for 
me  to  dispute  it."  The  flattened  gentleman  did  not  say  these 
words,  but  his  bowed  acquiescence  as  good  as  said  them.      He 


TPIE  OLD  MADHOUSE  113 

reopened  the  letter,  and  went  on  reading : — " '  Will  make  me 
late.  Probably  it  is  so  much  time  wasted,  as  my  nephew  is  an 
unstable  youth,  quite  as  likely  to  fall  in  love  with  a  new  sweet- 
heart as  a  new  invention.  But  a  promise  is  a  promise,  and  I 
must  go  and  see  this  place.  However,  you  may  rely  on  finding 
me  at  home  the  next  day,  if  you  do  not  object  to  talking  business 
on  Sundays.'  You  will  observe,"  said  Mr.  Threepwell,  who  had 
read  tlie  passage  he  had  wished  to  omit  with  an  air  of  stony 
protest,  to  disclaim  responsibility  for  it,  "  that  Dr.  Carteret 
makes  a  distinct  appointment  with  me  for  Sunday."  He  waited 
for  answer  or  comment — so  Fred  thought — exactly  as  he  would 
have  waited  for  a  questioned  boy  to  reply  in  a  viva-voce  exam- 
ination. An  incessant  schoolmaster  carries  the  marks  of  his 
daily  employment  about  with  him  almost  more  than  any  other 
man. 

Mrs.  Carteret  said  in  an  undertone,  for  her  son's  ear  only : — 
"You  see  how  it  is?"  meaning  that  this  letter  almost  put  an 
end  to  speculations  such  as  his  had  been.  He,  at  odds  with  its 
reference  to  himself,  asked: — "About  my  instability?"  Tc  . 
which  his  mother  rejoined : — "  iSTo,  silly  boy !  "  with  a  shade  of 
impatience.    Then  no  one  spoke. 

Mrs.  Carteret  broke  the  silence.  "  Do  not  let  us  have  any 
false  hopes,"  she  said.  "  You  need  not  wonder  that  I  can  bear 
to  speak  of  the  terrible  truth.  My  brother-in-law  is  dead — yes^ 
murdered.  We  shall  all  have  to  think  so  before  long,  and  I 
have  been  convinced  of  it  for  weeks.  It  is  a  hideous  thought 
and  a  dreadful  word  to  say.  But  what  do  we  gain  by  keeping 
our  eyes  shut;  each  of  us  pretending  not  to  see,  to  keep  up  a 
false  courage  in  others?  Let  us  look  the  fact  in  the  face,  that 
there  is  no  way  but  one  of  accounting  for  his  disappearance." 
She  spoke,  to  all  seeming,  with  a  perfect  self-command,  but 
her  face  had  gone  ashy  white,  and  the  hand  on  which  Fred  laid 
his  own,  in  something  of  mute  remonstrance,  was  cold. 

He  found  his  voice  to  exclaim  : — "  Mother — Mother — do  not — 
do  not  .    .    .  !  "  and  lost  it  again  with  his  speech  unspoken. 

"  Yes,  my  boy  !     Do  not  what?  " 

"  Do  not  give  way  to  ...  I  mean  do  not  let  yourself  be- 
lieve anything  so  horrible,  without  proof.  Remember  that  we 
have  not  a  particle  of  proof." 

"  What  proof  have  we  got  of  anything  else  ?  " 

On  an  ordinary  subject,  and  at  any  ordinary  time,  Fred  would 
have  been  pat  enough  with  the  vernacular  speech  usage  has 
bestowed  on  us.    He  would  have  told  his  mother  this  was  "  femi- 


114  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

nine  reasoning."  As  it  was,  his  answer  was  approximately  sane, 
under  stress  of  the  occasion.  "  None  whatever,  dearest  Mother," 
said  he.  "  But  why  form  a  belief  at  all,  when  we  know  nothing 
— absolutely  nothing  ?  " 

Mrs.  Carteret  said  quietly : — "  Beliefs  form  themselves,  if 
nothing  comes  to  check  them." 

Mrs.  Orpen  had  a  vague  sense  that  this  lady's  belief  that  her 
relative  had  been  murdered  was  somehow  impious;  but,  to  do 
her  justice,  she  made  no  attempt  to  substantiate  this  impression. 
There  was,  however,  a  sound  of  protest,  as  of  one  scandalised,  in 
her  voice :  and  a  shade  more  colour  in  her  face,  as  she  said : — 
''  Well — /  shall  go  on  hoping  for  one." 

]\Irs.  Carteret's  reply  was : — "  Thank  you  !  "  which  sounded  a 
little  odd  to  her  son.  Probably  it  meant : — "  I  am  grateful  to 
others  who  keep  hope  alive.  I  can  do  nothing  to  that  end 
myself." 

He  changed  the  conversation — made  the  school  its  topic.  An 
old  scholar  always  finds  plenty  of  questions  to  ask  about  his 
school,  and  there  was  nothing  to  be  gained  by  mere  aimless 
speculations  about  the  fate  of  the  headmaster,  especially  in 
view  of  Mrs.  Carteret's  confession  of  despair.  She  remained 
silent,  and  the  same  hush  and  undertone  continued  to  haunt  the 
speech  of  the  others,  as  though  the  depression  of  the  cause  of 
their  meeting  was  too  heavy  to  shake  off.  This  was  so  marked 
that  even  when  they  discussed  the  snapshot  of  the  Doctor  de- 
scending on  the  fighting  schoolboys,  Fred  did  not  dare  to  refer 
to  the  detective's  comment  upon  it.  The  trenchant  attitude  of 
the  minute  pugilist,  sparring  up  to  a  stupid  boy  half  as  big 
again  as  himself,  was  not  a  thing  to  discuss  without  a  smile; 
and  smiles,  then  and  there,  were  things  of  the  past  or  the  future. 
The  shadow  of  the  terrible  present  was  over. all. 

Can  anyone,  who  has  not  experienced  the  anxiety  occasioned 
by  the  unaccountable  disappearance  of  a  friend — even  of  one  who 
has  not  been  an  object  of  vital  solicitude — be  fully  alive  to  the 
pain  and  stress  of  life  it  occasions?  Some  wdio  have  had  this 
experience,  ending  in  discovery  of  a  corpse  long  dead — in  some 
cleft  rock  on  a  desert  coast,  or  bleak  moorland  solitude,  where  it 
has  lain  unknown  till  almost  past  recognition — have  spoken  of 
this  revelation  of  death  as  a  gain,  as  a  release  from  tension 
almost  too  great  to  be  borne.  The  worst  is  for  those  who  never 
know,  who  are  doomed  to  a  lifelong  doubt.  Death  is  a  thing 
to  be  resigned  about;  for  we  have—have  we  not? — the  consola- 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  115 

tions  of  Eeligion  ?  Or,  should  we  say — of  a  choice  of  Religions, 
one  apiece?  We  know — or  if  we  don't  we  ought  to — that  the 
dead  are  in  the  hands  of  God,  while  we  are  still  shifting  for  our- 
selves; "  on  our  cwn,"  as  speech  goes  nowadays.  Or,  if  not  that 
yet-a-while,  that  they  are  reposing  beneath  the  sod,  happily  un- 
conscious of  the  coming  Resurrection,  with  its  embarrassing  re- 
distributions of  matter  laid  claim  to  by  a  throng  of  its  former 
possessors.  Or  if  not  that  either,  that  they  are  Ee-incarnate,  or 
have 'joined  the  Choir  Invisible,  or —  Well,  something  satisfac- 
tory anyhow  !  But — the  man  who  has  vanished  !  What  of  him? 
Asic  yourself — would  you  not  rather  know  that  he  is  dead  ? 

Mrs.  Carteret  believed  her  brother-in-law  dead.  How  she  had 
acquired  such  a  fixed  idea,  without  a  particle  of  evidence  to  go 
on  either  way,  Heaven  only  knew !  Probably  she  could  scarcely 
be  said  to  have  known  herself.  It  was  no  doubt  that  bias  of 
the  mind  her  own  words  had  just  now  hinted  at,  the  growth  of 
belief  on  the  line  of  least  resistance.  Fred,  on  the  other  hand, 
was  fighting  against  this  bias  because  he  had  made  up  his  mind 
not  to  give  up  hope ;  and  the  sappers  and  miners  of  despair  were 
getting — day  by  day,  hour  by  hour, — nearer  to  the  fortress  he 
was  refusing  to  surrender.  His  was  really  the  more  painful 
position  of  the  two,  subject  of  course  to  allowance  for  the  differ- 
ence between  their  relationship.  The  Doctor  was,  after  all,  only 
Fred's  uncle.  Think  what  an  old  memory  he  was  to  his  mother 
— what  a  friend  he  had  been  to  her  from  her  girlhood  on- 
wards ! 

The  visit  of  the  matron  and  the  edge-faced  Mr.  Threepwell 
came  to  an  end,  the  necessity  to  catch  a  train  being  rather  wel- 
come than  otherwise.  Mrs.  Carteret  was  white,  depressed,  and 
silent;  leaving  comment  on  her  visitors  to  her  son,  if  he  chose 
to  make  it. 

"  Can't  congratulate  the  school  on  its  new  second  master," 
said  he,  feeling  that  any  indifferent  topic  might  relieve  the  ten- 
sion of  the  position.  He  thought  at  first  his  mother  was  not 
going  to  answer. 

But  she  did  in  the  end,  saying  wearily : — "  You  don't  like 
him?     Why?" 

"  Chop-jawed  idiot ! "  said  Fred,  using  language  rather  at 
random.  "  Besides,  he  wants  to  build  domiciles  over  half  the 
playing  field.     He  as  good  as  said  so.     You  heard  him." 

"  I  think  he  did  say  something  about  it."  She  spoke  very 
absently,  and  was  turning  the  leaves  of  a  book,  evidently  without 
reading  it. 


116  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

'' I  wonder  Uncle  Dru  should  ..."  Fred  stopped.  Was  he 
to  say  ''should  take"  or  '"should  have  taken"?  That  was  his 
choice. 

"  Should  what?  "     She  still  spoke  in  the  same  absent  manner. 

Fred  tried  another  way.  "  I  wonder  at  Uncle  Dru  taking  such 
a  miserable  idiot  into  his  confidence." 

"  Did  he  take  him  into  his  confidence?  " 

"  Well— you  heard  his  letter." 

"  I  was  not  listening  very  closely.  Could  you  remember  the 
words  ?  " 

"  Not  word  for  word.  But  the  sense  was — that  he  thought  I 
might  change  my  mind   ..." 

"  I  don't  think,"  his  mother  replied  after  a  pause,  "  that  your 
uncle  looked  upon  it  as  more  than  a  chance  remark,  that  he 
might  have  made  to  anybody.  It  makes  me  think  of  something 
he  once  said  to  me,  about  young  people's  love-affairs  and 
marriages." 

"  What  was  that?  "     Fred  seemed  vitally  interested. 

"  '  Xever  believe  in  a  marriage  till  you  see  the  couple  coming 
away  from  the  altar.'  " 

"What  did  he  mean  by  that?" 

"  Xothing  but  that  there  is  many  a  slip  'twixt  the  cup  and  the 
lip.  We  all  think  so,  and  say  so.  It  is  little  more  than  a 
truism." 

Had  it  not  been  for  the  terrible  uncertainty  whether  he  would 
ever  hear  his  uncle's  voice  again,  Fred's  answer  to  this  would 
have  been  an  angry  protest.  As  it  was,  he  choked  back  a  resent- 
ment he  would  probably  not  have  felt  had  his  confidence  in  his 
love  for  Cintra  been  wrought  of  oak  and  triple  brass,  and  merely 
answered,  with  an  uneasy  laugh : — "  I  shall  tell  Cit  he  said  that, 
when  I  Gee  her  on  Sunday." 

"  Why  not  ?  "  said  his  mother.  And  indeed  there  seemed  no 
reason  why  two  affianced  lovers,  strong  in  the  certainty  of  an 
imperishable  affection,  should  treat  the  academical  cynicisms  of 
an  old  bachelor  as  of  any  weight. 

Mrs.  Carteret  seemed  to  accept  this  view  of  the  question,  only 
replying: — "  Are  you  going  there  on  Sunday?  Then  I  shall  not 
have  you  to  lunch." 

Fred's  conscience  glanced  reproachfully  at  him.  "  Isn't  there 
someone   .    .    ."he  began. 

"  Who  would  come  and  keep  me  company  ?  "  She  completed 
his  question  for  him.  "  Xo — I  would  sooner  be  alone.  1  can- 
not talk  to  outsiders  about  it.     Never  mind  me !     I  shall  do." 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  117 

Fred  didn't  like  this.  "There's  El  .  .  .  There's  Miss 
Fraser,"  said  he,  changing  the  designation  midway. 

"  I  should  like  her.     But  it  isn't  fair." 

"  What  isn't  ?  " 

"  Well — bringing  her  into  such  a  gloomy  atmosj^here." 

"  Oh — be  blowed !  She'll  like  it.  You've  no  idea  what  nuts 
she  is  on  you.  Look  here ! — suppose  I  write  a  line  to  Cit,  and 
say  she's  to  come.     She'll  come,  fast  enough.     Trust  her !  " 

"  She's  a  dear  girl.  Write — yes.  But  no  ungraciousness, 
please,  foolish  son  of  mine !  Say  that  it  will  be  a  real  kindness 
to  me." 

"  All  right ! — I'll  say  all  the  things."  With  which  assurance 
Fred  sat  down  and  wrote  a  really  loverlike  note  to  Cintra,  on 
his  mettle  perhaps  after  the  recent  conversation.  In  order,  so 
to  speak,  to  emphasise  the  thoroughness  of  their  mutual  confi- 
dence, he  referred  to  his  new  theory  about  his  uncle's  possible 
revival  of  a  very  old  love-affair,  as  being  at  the  bottom  of  the 
unsolved  mystery.  How  jolly  it  would  be  if  it  were  only  that ! 
But  Cintra  must  be  very  careful  not  to  say  a  word  about  it.  He 
added  an  effusive  message  from  his  mother  to  the  elder  sister, 
inviting  her  to  lunch,  and  dwelling  on  the  satisfaction  it  would 
be  to  him  to  think  that  she  would  not  sufEer  by  his  desertion. 

But  neitlier  of  them  referred  to  the  confirmation  their  recent 
visitors  had  brought  them,  of  the  settled  determination  of  the 
missing  man  to  be  in  his  place  at  the  time  appointed. 


CHAPTER  IX 

The  Jessamines  was  looking  its  best,  that  fine  Sunday  morn- 
ing in  spring,  when  Fred  Carteret  rang  its  bell  and  was  told  by 
the  servant  that  Miss  Cintra  was  expecting  him  in  the  small 
parlour. 

The  Jessamines'  best  was  always  at  a  disadvantage,  owing  to 
the  close  competition — semi-detached  in  one  case — of  near  neigh- 
bours with  more  or  less  similar  ideals.  Inniskillen  hadn't  got  a 
crenellated  turret,  like  The  Jessamines;  but  it  had  an  elm,  which 
once  stood  in  the  fields  and  didn't  know  the  meaning  of  the  word 
"  suburb,"  but  had  been  spared  by  some  woodman  whose  musical 
associates  in  youth  it  had  sheltered,  and  had  been  built  into 
the  parapet  of  the  front  garden,  whose  ornate  cast-iron  railings 
longed  for  each  other  in  vain,  on  either  side  of  it.  Lyndhurst 
hadn't  got  three  laburnums  like  The  Jessamines,  nor  a  hedge  of 
veronica  which  often  flowered,  nor  sculpture  above  an  arched 
gateway  you  rang  at  and  put  your  card  in  the  letter-box  if  nobody 
came — excuse  style ! — nor  so  many  red  geraniums  all  at  once. 
But  Lyndhurst  had  a  puzzle-monkey,  in  which  it  took  a  proper 
pride.  So  that  really  none  of  the  villas  all  down  the  row  could 
afford  to  give  themselves  airs,  if  you  came  to  that.  The  story 
has  been  led,  by  the  momentary  presence  of  the  young  lady  who 
opened  the  gate  to  Fred,  to  embody  some  of  her  ways  of  looking 
at  life  and  her  surroundings. 

It  may  go  further,  and  note  that  when  she  said  that  Miss 
Cintra  was  expecting  Mr.  Carteret  in  the  small  parlour,  a  some- 
thing of  sympathy  in  her  voice,  as  of  one  that  had  a  young  man 
herself,  carried  the  implication  that  ]Miss  Cintra  was  alone,  and 
the  small  parlour  to  themselves.  Fred  could  not  resent  this 
attitude  of  sympathy,  but  he  scarcely  welcomed  it.  He  saw  his 
position  and  its  publicity,  as  it  were,  reflected  in  the  twinkle  on 
Annette's  comely  face,  heard  it  in  the  gleeful  satisfaction  of  her 
voice,  in  the  honeyed  tones  that  announced  that  he  was  Mr. 
Carteret,  Miss;  and  felt  that  he  could  lend  himself  to  any  ar- 
rangement by  which  he  and  his  fiancee  could  have  their  seventh 
Heaven  of  bliss  to  themselves,  free  from  either  the  derision  or 
sympathy  of  the  outside  world. 

118 


THE  OLD  MADPIOUSE  119 

Cintra,  visible  and  tangible,  ^vas  an  antidote  to  his  morbid 
introvisions,  which  he  felt  at  a  loss  to  account  for.  "\ATiy  should 
not  his  meeting  with  his  love  be  replete  with  the  joyousness  of 
their  old  thoughtless  happy  time  before  this  horrible  nightmare 
Avas  sprung  upon  them?  For  he  laid  it  all  to  that.  If  the 
thought  entered  his  mind  that  any  other  malign  influence  had 
crossed  his  love  for  Cintra,  he  simply  felt  exasperated  with  it 
and  drove  it  out.  He  hnew  he  was  master  of  himself.  ^Vlly — 
see !  Could  he  not — calmly,  mind  you  ! — make  comparison  be- 
tween this  rounded  face  and  mass  of  soft  brown  hair,  these 
reasonable  everyday  eyes  with  nothing  telling  or  dramatic  about 
them,  nor  anything  unusual  in  the  way  of  lash  and  lid;  and, 
"  for  instance  " — mark  that  "  for  instance,"  please ! — any  other 
girl's  face  he  had  seen  of  late?  He  could,  and  could  decide  to 
love  this  round  face  better  than  that  oval  one;  this  sufficiency 
of  brown  hair  better  than  that  superfluity  of  black;  these  honest 
English  eyes — his  inner  soul  used  both  epithets — rrather  than 
the  witchery  of  those  dark  orbs  which  owed  so  much  to  the 
veined  lids  and  long  soft  lashes  that  shaded  them.  He  even 
went  so  far  as  to  decide  that  his  lot,  compared  with  his  friend 
Charley's,  was  enviable ;  much  safer,  at  any  rate.  Was  Charley, 
after  all,  safe  to  trust  his  heart  in  the  keeping  of  a  girl  of  that 
sort?  He  felt  better,  stronger  in  his  own  position,  after  a  con- 
sciousness of  solicitude  for  his  friend's  welfare. 

He  managed  all  these  thoughts — it  is  wonderful  how  quick 
thoughts  can  be  managed ! — during  a  first  embrace  of  greeting 
which  helped  him  to  their  conclusion  quicker  than  any  logic. 
A  good  long  kiss  carries  more  conviction  to  the  soul  than  any 
logic  that  ever  was  chopped.  It  is  the  bumper  of  good  liquor; 
and  Ethics,  Law,  and  Theology  are  the  Justice,  Judge,  and  Vicar. 
This  lover  and  his  lass  were  quite  happy,  for  the  moment,  seated 
on  the  sofa  in  the  little  parlour  at  The  Jessamines,  slowing  down 
to  everyday  life  after  the  raptures  of  reunion  following  a  week 
or  so  without  an  interview. 

"Well,  Fred  darling! — and  what's  your  news?  Good,  I 
hope  ?  "     She  waited,  anxiously. 

Fred  shook  his  head,  slowly  at  first,  to  express  reluctance  to 
tell  it;  then  more  quickly  to  accentuate  its  trustworthiness. 
"  I'm  afraid — bad !  "  said  he.  "  No  sign  of  him."  He  ran 
through  the  events  of  the  last  few  days — told  what  had  been 
done,  and  what  was  still  to  do,  exaggerating  possibilities  of 
hope  in  the  latter. 

"  What  a  horrible  thing !  "  said  Cintra.     She  said  it  twice, 


120  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

making  more  of  the  adjective  the  second  time.  It  may  be  she 
had  never  till  now  grasped  the  full  honor  of  the  thing. 

"  What's  a  horrible  thing  ? "  said  the  Professor,  coming  in 
without  ceremony.  "  Oh — it's  our  great  inventor,  ^^^lat's  the 
latest  patent,  Master  Fred?  "  This  was  his  invariable  style,  and 
Fred  had  to  accept  it  with  a  cordial  shake  of  the  hand  as  a  set- 
off. He  continued,  re-asking  his  first  question  with  a  very  slight 
concession  of  manner,  amounting  to  an  admission  that  one  of  his 
daughters  might  actually  utter  a  sane  word : — "  And  what  is  the 
horrible  thing — eh?" 

"There  seems  to  be  no  doubt  ..."  Cintra  was  beginning, 
but  Fred  cut  her  short,  with : — "  We  cannot  get  any  news  of  my 
uncle — you  know  he  has  been  missing?  .  .  .  Well,  we  have  not 
had  any  news  of  him."  This  was  in  answer  to  a  deprecatory : — 
"  H'm — surely  .  .  .!"  from  the  Professor,  who  was  looking 
serious. 

A  second  report  was  necessary,  which  Fred  went  through 
patiently  enough.  The  Professor  listened,  with  an  analytical 
countenance ;  checking  off  the  progress  of  the  narrative  at  stages, 
and  twice  calling  out  to  a  complaining  noise  outside : — "  Yes — 
I'm  coming !  "  It  was  the  obnoxious  stepmother,  who  was  in- 
festing the  entrance-hall  with  a  view  of  being  taken  for  a  short 
walk,  while  the  sun  was  out,  by  her  devoted  better  half.  Terror 
crossed  Fred's  mind  when  she  intruded  meekly,  just  as  he  was 
winding  up,  lest  he  should  have  to  tell  it  all  over  again;  espe- 
cially as  the  Professor  said : — "  Come  in — you  must  hear  this, 
my  love !  "  But  he  was  spared  this  by  a  curious  astronomical 
fact,  new  to  him  but  known  to  this  excellent  lady,  that  the  sun 
would  not  stop  out  unless  they  went  at  once.  This  caused  the 
Professor  to  fly,  firing  Parthian  expressions  of  sympathy  and 
concern  at  the  news  he  had  just  heard.  She  herself  came  in  to 
shake  hands  with  Mr.  Carteret,  and  to  say  meekly  that  she  was 
afraid  she  could  not  stop  to  hear  now,  but  she  should  see  him 
at  lunch.  Then  the  street  door  closed  on  them,  and  the  garden 
gate  confirmed  their  departure,  and  Fred  breathed  free. 

But  only  for  a  moment,  for  an  instant  later  a  large  hairy  dog 
stormed  into  the  apartment,  causing  Cintra  to  say : — "  Oh — you 
darling  dog,  they've  left  you  behind,"  and  to  direct  her  lover  to 
go  out  and  open  the  garden  gate  and  whistle  for  him  and  he 
would  run  out.  This  was  avoided,  because  the  brother,  whose 
name  was  Eric,  appeared  suddenly  from  nowhere,  saying 
sternly : — "  Ajax  is  not  to  go  out,  because  he's  been  washed, 
and  is  not  to  get  dirty  again  till  he's  dry.     How-de-do !     I  say. 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  121 

when  two  magnets  won't  stick  together,  is  that  because  of  the 
poles?"  Fred  explained  that  whatever  happened  in  Science,  it 
did  not  become  the  enquirer  to  repine,  as  it  would  probably  turn 
out  that  it  was  governed  by  Law.  Eric  felt  enlightened,  and 
took  Ajax  away,  by  request. 

Then  peace  reigned,  and  Fred  and  Cintra  occupied  the  sofa, 
as  before.  There  was  a  topic  he  wished  to  approach,  not  con- 
nected with  the  cloud  that  was  keeping  the  days  dark  for  him; 
but  it  was  a  delicate  topic,  and  he  feared  to  burn  his  fingers  with 
it— hoped  in  fact  that  Cintra  would  be  the  first  to  allude  to  it. 
Eemember  that  they  had  not  met  since  the  luncheon  at  Maida 
Vale,  which  had  been  organised  expressly  to  bring  the  two 
fiancees  together !  Cintra  had  written  more  than  one  letter  since 
then — more  than  two — and  yet  had  never  made  mention  of  the 
other  bride-elect,  except  in  the  most  general  terms. 

She  nevertheless  was  keenly  curious  to  know  something  of 
liow  this  wife  that  was  to  be  Fred's  friend  presented  herself 
to  him.  For  was  not  a  scheme  afoot  for  domiciling  them,  if  not 
actually  in  the  same  house,  at  least  as  next-door  neighbours? 
And  that  too  neighbours  in  a  single  large  house,  arbitrarily  split 
into  two  small  ones.  Fred  would  be  sure  to  talk  about  her.  He 
was  bound  to  do  so  in  the  end.  She  was  not  bound  to  inaugurate 
that  topic,  so  kept  silence  about  this  Miss  Lucy  Hinchlitfe. 

Perhaps  it  was  anxiety  to  approach  the  dangerous  ground 
that  made  Fred  unresponsive  to  her  first  bars  of  their  duet. 

"  You'll  have  to  keep  your  eyes  open,  Fred  dearest,"  said  she, 
"  with  Steppy  Weppy,  or  she'll  be  down  on  you  Avith  her 
Nicholls.     Mind  you  don't  give  her  a  chance,  or  she'll  take  it !  " 

Fred  knew  that  Steppy  Weppy  was  a  derisive  name  for  the 
stepmother,  but  Nicholls  was  new  to  him.  "With  her  ivliat?" 
he  asked. 

•  "  With  her  Nicholls.  Her  Emma  C.  Nicholls.  She's  a  cJair- 
voyante.  Whenever  Steppy  Weppy  goes  up  to  town,  she  goes  to 
see  her." 

"  But  what  about  her?     How  does  she  come  in?  " 

"  You  foolish  young  man,  don't  you  see  that  she'll  want  you 
to  consult  her  about  ..." 

"  About  Uncle  Dru  ?  Well,  let  her  want !  I  won't  consult 
ariy  Miss  Nichollses.  She  may  consult  her  herself,  if  she 
likes." 

"  She'll  trot  her  out  at  lunch.     You  see  if  she  doesn't." 

"  How  does  she  hit  it  off  with  your  governor,  about  her  Miss 
NichoUs?" 


122  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

"  They  agree  to  differ.     She  says  he's  a  hardened  sceptic."' 

"  What  does  he  say  ?  " 

"  Says  he  doesn't  mind  being  called  a  sceptic,  as  long  as  he 
isn't  spelt  with  a  K,  like  in  America." 

"  The  Greeks  would  have  spelt  him  with  a  K,  and  they  knew 
something  about  their  own  language.  I'm  not  sure  Uncle  Sam 
isn't  right,  for  once." 

"  I  don't  see  that  it  matters.  Anyhow,  papa  flatly  refuses  to 
believe  in  Miss  NichoUs  till  she  telJs  him  the  number  of  a  bank- 
note in  a  sealed  envelope.  He's  to  put  it  there,  you 
know." 

"  Of  course !     I  understand  that." 

"  I  tell  papa  that's  no  use  at  all.  She's  sure  to  be  able  to  do 
that  by  conjuring." 

"  Most  likely.  These  things  are  easy  when  you  know  how." 
Fred  spoke  with  a  tranquil  conviction.  Was  he  not  giving  ex- 
pression to  a  creed  that  will  outlive  all  other  creeds,  faith  in  the 
omnipotence  of  our  Maskelynes  and  Cookes?  Besides,  he  felt 
correct,  as  the  words  passed  his  lips.  Moreover,  his  mind  was 
harking  back  to  a  conversation  elsewhere,  in  which  this  vexed 
question  of  clairvoyance  had  been  discussed.  Could  he  not  refer 
to  this  conversation?  Why  hesitate?  He  was  angry  with  him- 
self for  doing  so — then  indignant  at  his  own  anger.  Why  should 
hairs  be  split  over  so  simple  a  matter?  He  could  disperse  such 
questionings  by  speaking  boldly  of  it.  But  he  had  to  admit  to 
himself  that  there  were  obstacles,  and  he  ended  by  the  mistake 
of  speaking  timidly.  "  However,  I  must  admit  I  was  told  some 
very  curious  things  by  .  .  .  by  a  young  lady  I  was  talking  to 
— a — the  other  day." 

"Who  was  she?"  Cintra  drawled  or  lengthened  this  out,  to 
express  that,  whoever  she  was,  she  was  of  less  importance  than 
the  absence  of  a  coal-scuttle,  just  noticed.  She  rang  the  bell' 
for  a  domestic,  producing  Annette,  who  was  told  to  tell  Jane  she 
had  forgotten  the  coals.  \Yhen  Jane  had  subsided,  Cintra  harked 
back.  Who  was  this  young  lady?  She  could  pay  attention  to 
her  now  that  all  that  coal-fussing  was  over. 

Fred  had  half  an  idea  of  inventing  another  young  lady  to  do 
instead  of  Miss  Lucy  Hinchliffe;  for  it  was  she  whom  his  tongue 
faltered  over.  That  was  cowardice.  Besides,  Miss  Hinchliffe 
would  have  to  be  brought  up  for  discussion  in  the  end.  "  The 
young  lady  ?  "  he  said,  pretending  he  had  forgotten  her.  "  Oh — 
about  the  clairvoyance!  Yes — that  was  Lucy  Hinchliffe.  She 
told  me  some  very  odd  things — very  odd  things  indeed! — hap- 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  123 

pened  to  herself."  He  did  not  look  round  at  Cintra  as  he  spoke. 
If  he  had,  he  would  have  met  suspicion  in  the  two  eyes  that 
turned  suddenly  on  him. 

As  it  was,  he  only  heard  it  in  her  voice.  "  And  did  you  believe 
the  very  odd  things  ?  "  said  she  drily. 

"  Why — did  you  think  she  looked  like  a  liar  ?  " 

"  I  don't  think  anything  about  her." 

Fred  glanced  up  furtively.  There  was  no  doubt  about  it. 
The  young  lady's  face  was  paler  than  when  he  looked  last,  and 
she  was  playing  an  uneasy  tune  with  the  fingers  of  her  left  hand 
on  the  sofa-cushion.  She  was  looking  at  these  fingers,  not  at 
him. 

Now  this  appeared  to  him  entirely  unreasonable.  After  all, 
whatever  impression  Miss  Hinchliffe  had  produced  on  him,  it 
was  known  only  to  himself.  Official  knowledge  of  this  shade  of 
sentiment — which,  by  the  way,  he  denied  the  existence  of — was 
simply  impossible.  Not  only  did  no  such  feeling  exist,  but  he 
was  absolutely  certain  he  had  never  shown  it.  That  describes  the 
paradox  of  his  mental  attitude  to  a  nicety. 

"  Cintra !  "  said  he  in  a  half -remonstrating  tone — not  a  strong 
one.  Then  he  didn't  see  his  way,  and  said  weakly: — "I 
say   ..."  and  stopped. 

"  What  do  you  say,  Fred  ?  " 

"  I  mean — you  mustn't  think,  you  know  .  .  .  You  mustn't 
faijcy   ..." 

"  I'm  not  fancying  anything." 

"  Well — look  at  what  you  said  !  " 

"  What  did  I  say  ?  "  This  question  was  fraught  with  embar- 
rassment to  Fred,  who  on  reilection  was  unable  to  remember  that 
the  girl  had  said  anything  at  all. 

He  could  not  evade  answering  somehow,  and  nothing  presented 
itself  but  a  sudden  candour.  "  I  see  you  hate  Lucy  Hinchliffe," 
said  he.     "But — what  for?" 

"  I  never  said  I  hated  Miss  Hinchliffe.  I  hardly  know  her. 
I  only  said  that  I  didn't  know  anything  about  her." 

"  But  you  know  what  that  meant !  " 

"What  did  it  mean?" 

Fred  felt  his  position  bettered.  "  It  meant,"  said  he,  "  that 
you  have  taken  a  perfectly  unwarrantable  dislike  to  this  young 
lady,  who  really  is — "  here  Fred  assumed  a  man-of-the-world  air, 
implying  unlimited  possibilities  of  critical  admiration  of  Woman, 
quite  free  from  the  trammels  of  passion — "  who  really  is  a  very 
superior  young  woman.     I  assure  you,  my  dearest  girl,  that  when 


124  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

YOU  come  to  know  her  you  will  be  one  of  the  first  to  acknowl- 
edge  ..." 

"  Go  on!     Talk  like  a  book." 

"  Perhaps  I  had  better  go  !  " 

"  Yes — go  away  to  your  Miss  Lucy  Hinchliffe."  Cintra  had 
risen  from  the  sofa ;  and,  leaving  her  lover  sole  occupant,  was 
making  a  pretence  of  looking  out  of  a  window. 

This  was  getting  serious.  Fred  also  rose,  and  stood  wavering, 
with  a  consciousness  on  him  of  the  door  he  had  been  told  to  go 
out  at.  He  had  not  the  slightest  intention  of  availing  himself 
of  it,  but  he  felt  that  it  had  been,  so  to  speak,  mooted,  and  that 
its  white  china  handle  was  aggressively  in  evidence. 

Now  it  happened,  fortunately  for  the  resolution  of  this  dis- 
cord, that  the  three-quarter  back  view  of  Miss  Cintra  Fraser  was 
one  of  lier  strongest  points.  It  laid  stress  upon  the  mass  of 
warm  sunny  brown  hair  which  as  good  as  said : — "'  Thick  as  I  am, 
I  am  tight-packed,  and  all  real ! "  and  the  soft  whiteness  of  the 
neck  below  it  which  had  equally  said : — "  Kiss  me !  "  since  it  was 
a  baby's ;  and  had  added : — "  Provided  you  are  a  near  relative," 
since  the  owner  became  a  person.  It  laid  stress  also  on  the 
rounded  flow  of  a  mere  morning  garment,  that  but  the  other  day 
was  nineteen  and  elevenpence-three-farthings,  a  bargain,  in  a 
plate  glass  den  filled  with  motionless  loveliness,  sometimes  end- 
ing in  a  point.  There  is  room  for  a  good-sized  volume  on  the 
influence  of  skirts. 

Anyhow,  it  had  its  way,  this  particular  aspect  of  a  too  sus- 
picious young  lady,  who  to  tell  the  truth  was  also  wilful  and 
rather  spoiled.  Her  lover,  instead  of  going  away,  as  bidden,  to 
his  Miss  Lucy  Hinchliffe,  approximated  naturally  to  his  regis- 
tered fancee,  and  got  his  arm  round  her  waist  without  more  than 
a  shrinklet  of  protest  on  her  part.  "  Cintra  dearest,"  he  mur- 
mured.    "Do  tell  me  what  all  the  row  is  about !" 

"  Well — you  know  you  hadn't  any  eyes  for  anybody  else,  all 
through  lunch." 

"  Why — of  course  she's  a  jolly  pretty  girl,  and  all  that  sort 
of  thing.  But  one  has  to  be  civil,  you  know,  when  .  .  .  Well — 
consider ! — it  was  her  first  visit  at  my  mother's  house,  and  she's 
going  to  marry  Charley  Snaith." 

''  Oh — it  was  civUity.  I  see."  Here  a  slight  recrudescence 
of  protest — spinal  rigidity  in  revolt  against  the  encircling  arm, 
which  tightened. 

"Cintra! — what  else  could  it  be?  Besides,  you  must  re- 
member this — that  my  mother  had  been  very  much  upset  by  this 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  125 

affair  of  my  uncle,  and  I  had  only  just  told  her  what  they  said 
at  Scotland  Yard.  I  really  was  afraid  she  might  not  seem  sweet 
enough  to  her  visitor,  and  Miss  Hinchliffe  would  feel  a  little — 
well! — not  exactly  de  trap,  don't  you  know!    ..." 

Cintra  helped  him.  "■  Xot  being  made  enough  fuss  over.  I 
see." 

'•'  Well — not  exactly  that.  Xor  exactly  out  in  the  cold.  But 
vou  understand.  I  felt  I  was  bound  to  be  as  agreeable  as 
possible." 

"  You  did  your  best."  Cintra's  manner  is  chilly,  and  it  is  not 
clear  that  Fred's  last  apology — which  indeed  he  had  thought  of 
for  the  first  time — had  done,  him  any  service.  The  dissension 
might  easily  have  recrudesced ;  but,  as  often  happens,  the  fresh 
air  brought  in  by  an  incoming  third  party  helped  to  disperse 
it.  Xancy,  or  Elbows,  in  her  bicycle  things,  hurried  abruptly 
into  the  room,  to  say  good-bye.  '*  I'm  off  to  your  mother's,"  said 
she  to  Fred.     "  I'm"  late." 

"  She'll  wait  for  you,  any  time,"  was  his  response.  Then  the 
bicyclist  departed.  But  not  immediately,  for  she  put  her  head 
back  into  the  room,  to  say: — "1  hope  you're  not  quarrelling?" 

"No — why  should  we  be  quarrelling?"  Both  spoke,  frag- 
mentarily. 

"  Because  I  didn't  hear  you  begin  again.  Good-bye !  "  And 
off  she  went,  ringing  her  bell  conscientiously  along  the  road,  and 
turning  cofners  carefully. 

Fred  was  in  no  humour  for  further  words  about  j\Iiss  Lucy 
Hinchliffe,  so  he  postponed  reference  to  the  great  scheme  of 
The  Cedars,  which  he  had  been  quite  full  of  when  he  reached 
The  Jessamines.  Presumably,  the  couple  "  began  again  "  where 
they  had  left  off  before  Miss  Hinchliffe  came  into  their  conver- 
sation; for  when  the  second  luncheon-bell  rang  they  presented 
themselves  in  a  temperate  frame  of  mind,  ready  smoothed  for 
Society,  and  accepting  outsiders  with  rapture,  however  cordially 
they  wished  them  somewhere  else. 

They  may  have  felt  that  the  outsiders  were  welcome,  as  that 
class  of  persons  draws  a  veil  over  family  ructions  of  every  sort, 
and  the  violence  thereof  subsides  before  the  veil  is  removed.  Fred 
felt  what  one  always  feels,  when  one  is  told,  where  one  is  lunch- 
ing out,  that  the  So-and-so's  are  coming,  whom  of  course  one 
knows,  so  there  is  no  need  to  introduce.  He  felt  that  he  wished 
it  had  been  somebody  else,  newer  and  more  interesting  than  the 
Munby  Morings.  Nevertheless  that  most  respectable  couple  were 
good  as  come-betweens — really  the  end  they  served  deserves  a 

9 


126  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

word  invented  for  it — and  helped  whatever  was  left  of  that 
lovers'  tiff  of  the  morning  to  become  a  thing  of  the  past.  Also, 
Mrs.  IMunby  Moring,  a  very  interesting  person,  would  talk  to 
Steppy  Weppy  about  Psychical  Research  and  keep  her  quiet. 
Besides,  they  were  very  well  connected.  These  last  advantages 
were  mentioned  by  Cintra  to  Fred,  to  palliate  the  Munby 
Morings,  whom  he  seemed  to  resent. 

"  Bother  the  Munby  Morings !  "  said  he,  rudely.  "  Anyone 
else?"  And  then  when  he  was  told  that  Emily  might  come  in, 
but  she  wasn't  certain,  he  made  a  face  expressive  of  exception 
taken  to  Emily.  "  I  know  you  hate  her,"  said  Cintra,  "■  but 
you'll  have  to  put  up  with  her  this  once." 

Fred  said  : — "  Then  if  you  put  me  next  her  at  lunch,  she  must 
be  on  my  right,  so  that  1  may  not  see  the  mole."  Cintra 
promised  to  attend  to  this,  but  only  just  in  time.  For  Annette 
the  parlour  maid  threw  the  door  open  all  its  width  as  if  to  admit 
a  van,  and  said  "  Miss  Skinner  "  with  decision.  Miss  Skinner, 
who  was  also  Emily,  could  have  come  through  a  door  ajar,  as 
far  as  width  went. 

She  submitted  the  cheek  that  hadn't  the  mole  to  Cintra,  for 
pecking ;  saying  considerately : — "  Don't  kiss  me  in  front,  dear, 
or  you'll  catch  my  cold."  Because  she  was  an  unselfish  person, 
who  alwavs  thought  of  others  before  herself. 

"  I  was  afraid  you  wouldn't  be  able  to  get  away,"  said  Cintra. 

Then  another  knock  proved  to  be  the  Munby  Morings.  The 
female  one  was  ample,  fully  justifying  the  open  door.  But  her 
hat,  an  ill-considered  hat,  of  the  sort  that  was  likened  to  a  pork- 
pie  some  years  ago,  was  held  to  one  side  of  her  head  like  a 
limpet,  or  the  cap  of  the  military  in  days  of  yore.  Now  Miss 
Skinner's  hat,  being  as  it  were  her  only  cnance  for  horizontal 
expansion,  was  a  Gainsborough  hat  with  a  feather,  like  in  a 
portrait.  It  is  impossible  to  avoid  reference  to  these  hats,  as 
they  had  come  to  lunch,  and  meant  to  remain  on  at  table. 

Mr.  Munby  Moring  was  a  thin  grey  short-sighted  man  whose 
collars  held  his  chin  up.  It  did  not  do  to  speak  to  him  suddenly, 
because  then  he  lost  his  eyeglasses,  and  had  to  find  them  before 
he  answered  you.  His  name,  over  and  above  the  two  already 
given,  was  Octavius,  and  he  was  spoken  of  thus  behind  his  back 
by  friends,  in  recognition  of  its  use  by  his  wife.  It  was,  however, 
no  fault  of  hers  that  he  had  no  convenient  abbreviation.  How 
could  the  wife  of  a  Government  official — that  is  what  he  was — 
speak  of  him  as  either  Ocky  or  Tavy?  And  what  other  choice 
was  there? 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  127 

"  So  sorry !  "  said  the  Professor,  coming  in  late ;  but  antici- 
pating his  wife,  who  was  later  still.  "  Mrs.  Fraser  was  unwill- 
ing to  lose  the  sun  ...  Oh  no — no  indeed ! — we  didn't  hurry 
back.  Indeed,  the  sun  began  going  in.  So  we  came  in."  The 
ninety  millions  of  miles  off,  which  popular  Astronomy  regards 
as  a  feather  in  the  cap  of  Phoebus,  were  interposed  between  him 
and  Gipsy  Hill  in  vain.  He  was  treated  like  any  other  neigh- 
bour. And  yet  Cintra's  father  was  Professor  of  Applied  Physics 
at  his  College. 

A  few  moments  of  consciousness  that  lunch  was  lying  in  wait 
for  its  victims  in  an  adjoining  room — for  at  The  Jessamines  all 
the  rooms  but  the  breakfast-room  were  on  a  level — elapsed  before 
the  lady  of  the  house  appeared.  Then  everyone  affected  a  de- 
light that  nothing  in  the  circumstances  accounted  for,  talked  at 
the  same  time,  didn't  wait  for  anyone  else  to  finish  speaking, 
and  laughed  gaily  without  provocation^  In  short,  it  was  like 
when  there's  company.     Because  there  was  company. 

Fred,  for  his  part,  would  have  been  much  better  pleased  if 
there  had  been  no  company.     He  would  have  been  well  content 
to  chat  with  the  Professor  alone  about  the  nightmare  that  was 
haunting  his  life  and  his  mother's ;  for  he  really  thought  his 
intended  father-in-law  a  sensible  man,  though  he  disagreed  with 
him  generally  about  Dynamics  and  Physical  Science.     He  was 
feeling  about  in  the  dark  for  someone  of  the  everyday  sensible 
type,  with  a  good  digestion  and  no  nerve  to  speak  of,  to  pooh- 
pooh  his  alarms  and  predict  the  sudden  reappearance  of  his 
uncle  in  the  best  of  health  and  spirits,  greatly  surprised  that  his 
letter  explaining — for  instance — his  sudden  departure  for  ISTova 
Scotia  had  never  reached  the  school  or  his  family.     His  future 
father-in-law  would  have  been  just  the  man.     And  not  only  was 
he  deprived  of  this  possible  anodyne,  but  he  was  destined  to 
suffer  at  the  hands  of  the  company,  or  at  least  the  male  part  of  it. 
For  when  the  ladies  had  retired,  that  the  gentlemen  might 
smoke,  Mr.  Munby  Moring,  who  had  very  soon  cast  aside  the 
mask  of  hollow  cheerfulness  which  one  owes   to   Society,  and 
devoted  himself  to  eating  too  much,  roused  himself  from  a  torpor 
which  was  due  to  Sunday  joint,  and  said  to  Fred : — "  Carteret. 
C.A.E.T.E.R.E.T.   .    .    .   That  your  name?     Any  relation 
to  man  in  newspaper — Daily  Telegraph,  yes'dy  morning — man 
disappeared.     Headmaster  big  school  out  near  Exeter?   .    .    . 
Oh — beg  pardon! — no  idea  !    ..."     For  Fred  had  replied  that 
the  subject  of  this  newspaper  notice,  which  he  had  not  seen,  was 
his  uncle. 


128  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

This  was  discomposing;  but  as  the  offender  had  the  sense  to 
make  no  serious  attempts  to  extenuate  his  blunder,  it  was  easy 
to  pretend  that  it  wasn't.  Apologies  would  have  been  fatal.  In 
fact,  it  would  have  been  better  not  to  add  even : — "  Beg  pardon ! 
Stoopid  of  me !  Ought  to  have  known."  He  had  broken  his 
molasses  jug. 

The  Professor  ignored  it ;  walked  round  the  spill,  so  to  speak. 
"  The  Engine ! "  he  exclaimed  suddenly  and  irrelevantly. 
"  How's  the  Non-Vibrating  Duplex  ?  "  Then  he  proceeded  to 
explain  the  principle,  and  Mr.  Munby  Moring  was  only  too  glad 
to  pretend  he  understood  him,  to  distract  attention  from  the 
molasses. 

"  A  .  .  .Oh  yes !  I  understand,"  said  that  gentleman, 
when  the  Professor  paused.  "  Vibration  and  Friction  prac- 
tically same  thing !  V'course,  of  course.  Quite  understand ! 
Does  Mr.  Carteret  great  credit." 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  the  Professor,  anxious  to  clear  his 
character.  "  I  fear  I  am  not  making  myself  understood.  Vi- 
bration and  Friction  can  scarcely  be  considered  ^precisely  the 
same  thing." 

"^  A  .  .  .  yes!  WTiich  is  which?"  said  Mr.  Munby  Moring. 
''  'Fraid  not  exactly  a  dab  at  these  matters.  Very  interestin', 
ihough."  But  this  was  only  to  extenuate  ignorance  and  make 
the  conversation  plausible.  Fred  was  glad  that  modesty  en- 
joined silence  on  his  part. 

"  Friction,"  said  the  Professor,  "  is  the  resistance  offered  by 
the  spontaneous  adhesion  of  surfaces  in  contact.  Vibration  is 
the  movement  of  the  molecular  structure  of  a  solid  body  due  to 
the  elasticity  of  its  particles." 

"  I  say !  "  said  the  boy  Eric,  who  had  been  at  liberty  to  have 
more  for  lunch  than  anyone  else,  because  it  was  his  dinner. 

"  What  do  you  say,  '  Ric  '  ?  "  said  the  Professor  benevolently, 
as  from  Olympus. 

"Is  it  the  same  in  class  and  out  of  class?" 

"Is  what?" 

"  Is  vibration?  " 

The  Professor  seemed  alive  to  the  necessity  for  caution  in  deal- 
ing with  his  son.  "  That  depends,"  said  he.  "  Depends  on  the 
preceptor.  A  certain  latitude  is  permissible  to  definition  when 
used  for  educational  purposes.  Now  how  does  your  master,  Mr. 
.    .    .   Mr.    .    .    .    What's-his-name   .    .    .  ? " 

"Old  Scrumpy?" 

"Well — Mr.  Crump.     How  does  he  define  vibration?" 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  129 

"  Says  it's  a  property  inherent  in  atmospheres  thus  Sound  is 
attributable  to  the  vibrations  of  atmospheric  air  and  Light  to 
the  vibrations  of  sther."  Master  Erie  said  this  sentence  rather 
as  if  it  had  been  one  long  word. 

A\Tiat  Mr.  j\Ioring  was  going  to  say  turned  out  to  be : — "  Must 
c'nfess — was  under  the  impression  vibration  was  a  sort  of  jiggle. 
Comes  from  next  door — gets  in  the  furniture  and  things.  Gets 
on  your  nerves.  Mrs.  Moring  couldn't  stand  it  when  they  set 
up  a  gas-engine  at  the  Institution  near  us.  Had  to  complain. 
Threatened  'em  with  my  lawyer.  That's  the  best  course  to  p'soo 
when  it's  vibration.  Just  you  threaten  'em  with  your  lawyer. 
That'll  shut  'em  up !  "  It  will  be  seen  that  Mr.  Moring  did  not 
look  on  vibration  as  a  Scientific  Phenomenon,  but  as  an  indict- 
able nuisance.  He  enlarged  on  the  subject.  "  \Yhen  it's  music 
it's  no  use.  There  was  a  f'ler  in  our  Department  had  bought 
his  house  and  paid  for  it,  and  a  girls'  school  took  next  door, 
Practisin' — practisin'  all  day — I  assure  you  !  Xothin'  but  prac- 
tisin',  practisin'  scales.  And  he  could  do  nothin' !  ...  Oh 
yes! — he  took  'em  into  Court,  fast  enough.  But  could  do 
nothin'!  Had  to  pay  the  costs  himself.  Now,  if  it  had  been 
vibration !  " 

"  I  say,"  said  Eric,  with  the  animated  face  of  Science  when  it 
gets  a  certainty,  "  if  old  Scrumpy's  right  and  the  governor's 
wrong,  it  ivas  vibration.  Sound  is  attributable  to  the  vibrations 
of  atmospheric  air  and  Light  to  those  of  aether." 

"  We  had  some  of  it  in  a  bottle — stoppered  bottle,"  said  Mr. 
Moring.  ''"'  Mrs.  Moring  always  reminded  of  Browning  by  it. 
Can't  say  why — all  correct,  no  doubt !  "  He  looked  resignedly  at 
his  cigar,  and  seemed  to  decide  that  the  ash  was  not  long  enough 
yet. 

"  But  I  say,"  said  Eric.  "  Look  here !  Isn't  practising 
sound?"  This  was  admitted.  "Very  well,  then — there  you 
are!  "  he  added  triumphantly.  Clearly,  if  practising  was  sound, 
and  sound  was  vibration,  practising  was  vibration,  and  action- 
able. 

The  Professor,  who  had  retired  when  Applied  Law  was  intro- 
duced into  Applied  Science,  was  a  higher  mind  looking  down  on 
mortals.  "  I  am  afraid,"  said  he,  sedately,  "  that  an  action 
would  hardly  lie.     We  are  not  sufficiently  advanced  in  Science." 

Eric's  candid  eyes  looked  attentively  at  his  father,  and  per- 
ceived a  fact.  "  Don't  you  believe  the  governor !  "  said  he, 
chiefly  to  Fred.  "  He's  only  humbugging.  I  always  know  when 
the  governor's  humbugging  bv  the  look  in  his  eve." 

O  DO         O         w  •■ 


130  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

The  governor  laughed,  as  did  his  company.  "  Suppose  now," 
said  he  to  his  son,  ""  you  were  to  go  and  make  some  valuable 
remarks  on  things  in  general  in  the  drawing-room !  " 

"  All  right,"  said  the  youth,  with  perfect  serenity.  "  I'll  say 
you  told  me  to."  He  left  the  room,  and  a  sense  of  grownupness 
developed  in  it  as  he  went  along  the  passage  whistling.  Mr. 
Moring  talked  about  the  crying  necessity  for  more  appointments 
at  higher  salaries  in  his  Department — the  Supertax  Department, 
was  it?  The  story  isn't  sure.  The  Professor's  attitude  was  one 
of  welcoming  a  higher  salary  for  all  his  friends,  and  deprecating 
a  rise  in  everyone  else's;  this  he  called  retrenchment.  He  then 
looked  premonitorily  at  his  watch,  and  said : — "  You  know  my 
way,  gentlemen?  Always  an  experiment  going !  It  is  now  three 
o'clock,  and  at  seven  minutes  past  I  have  to  add  a  hundred  and 
forty-three  grammes  of  dinitro-methylate  of  toluol  to  a  solution 
of  potassic  bichloride  in  .  .  .  But  I  need  not  trouble  you  with 
details.  I  shall  be  back  before  you  have  finished  your  cigars." 
And  he  fled  to  attend  to  what  his  daughters  spoke  freely  of  as 
"  papa's  messes."  For  even  the  blessed  Sabbath  was  no  check 
upon  the  continuance  of  such  complications  as  the  one  given, 
probably  inaccurately,  above. 

The  door  had  hardly  closed  on  him  when  Mr.  Munby  Moring 
embarked  on  speech  as  if  he  had  something  to  say.  "  Can't  tell 
you  how  sorry  I  am,  Mr.  Carteret,  for  putting  my  foot  in  it 
as  I  did  just  now — awfully  sorry."  Fred  of  course  made  light 
of  the  blunder,  and  was  thinking  how  oblivion  could  best  be 
developed  in  the  interest  of  Mr.  Moring's  conscience,  when  that 
gentleman  continued  remorsefully : — "  Awfully  sorry,  I  assure 
you.  But — similar  case !  Thought  I'd  better  tell  you,  because 
you  might  like. to  know." 

"  Eh — what's  that  ? "  said  Fred,  on  the  alert  in  a  mo- 
ment. ''  A  case  of  disappearance,  within  your  own  knowl- 
edge ?  " 

Mr.  Moring  disposed  of  his  cigar-ash,  now  at  a  daagerous 
maximum,  with  the  deliberation  of  a  man  who  knows  the  value 
of  what  his  tongue  is  keeping  back,  and  said  after  a  pause: — 
"■  My  own  father.  Sir !  Yes — he  disappeared  for  two  whole 
years,  and  reappeared  just  where  he  was  last  seen.  But  he  could 
give  no  account  of  himself.     None  whatever !  " 

"  But — bless  my  soul !  "  Fred  exclaimed,  taken  aback.  "  Wliat 
a  very  extraordinary  story !  " 

"  Yes — and  perhaps  the  most  extraordinary  part  of  it  is,  that 
that  is  the  whole  of  the  story.     We  have  never  been  a  penny  the 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  131 

wiser.     I  mean  by  '  we/  his  family — brothers,  sisters,  cousins, 
the  whole  kit." 

"  But  —  how  extraordinary !  .  .  .Do  you  mean  to 
say   .    .    .?" 

''  I've  really  said  all  there  is  to  say.  I'll  give  you  a  few 
details,  which  I  suppose  belong.  But  they  are  not  in  any  way 
essential.  It  was  thirty-three  years  ago,  in  Rome.  I  was  at 
college  in  England,  at  Oxford  .  .  .  Merton,  I  was.  Got  a 
letter  from  my  mother,  saying  my  father  had  vanished,  and  she 
was  frantic.  He  had  been  seen  last  at  a  cafe  in  the  Piazza 
di  Spagna,  sitting  at  a  little  marble  table  peacefully  smoking. 
He  was  a  sort  of  habitue  there,  well  known  to  the  waiters.  He 
said  to  one  of  them : — "  Bisogna  ritoniare  in  casa.  Son  infred- 
dato.     You  know  what  that  means?  " 

"  I  can  go  as  far  as  that.  He  thought  he  had  better  go  home. 
He  was  catching,  or  had  caught  cold.     Go  on!  " 

"  The  man  turned  his  back  to  give  a  customer  change,  and 
when  he  turned  round,  my  father's  table  was  empty.  No  one 
saw  him  go.  He  never  went  home.  And  didn't  appear  again 
till  two  years  after." 

"  And  then  knew  nothing  of  what  had  happened !  Well — that 
is  a  queer  story!  Then,  you  said,  he  reappeared  in  the  same 
place  ?  " 

"  In  the  same  place,  two  years  after.  Another  waiter — not 
the  same  man,  a  new  one — saw  him  at  the  same  table,  but  had 
not  see  him  come  in.  He  said: — 'Gaffe  nero,  Signore? '  and 
my  father  said  he  had  had  his  coffee.  Then  he  said  to  this  waiter 
exactly  the  words  he  had  said  to  the  other  two  years  before: — 
'  Sono  infreddato — bisogna  andare  in  casa,'  and  got  up  and  went 
home.  I  was  in  London  that  time  too — Just  got  my  appoint- 
ment at  our  office.  But  my  mother  has  often  told  me  how  the 
dogs  barked  when  the  bell  jangled,  and  she  said  to  my  sister — 
Lady  Storrar  she  is  now : — '  What  on  earth  is  making  Leone 
bark  so?'  Of  course  the  dog  knew  it  was  the  ■padrone  back 
again.     They  do,  somehow." 

Fred  assented.  "Wasn't  it  very  rum  for  your  mother?"  he 
asked. 

"  Well — of  course — when  she'd  had  time  to  recollect." 

"  I  don't  understand." 

"  Why — just  at  first  he  was  so  like  himself  it  quite  took  her 
in.  Fact !  Then  he  took  hold  of  her  dress,  and  said : — *  What's 
all  this  black  for  ? '  Then  my  sister  screamed  and  went  off 
fainting !     She's  not  strong." 


132  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

"  But  it  was  such  a  smasher!"  said  Fred,  feeling  this  fainting 
fit  was  excusable.     "  What  happened  then?" 

"Well — you  see — I  wasn't  there!  Only,  as  I  understand,  it 
was  the  dooce's  own  delight  to  convince  him  what  had  happened. 
He  didn't  know  he  hadn't  Just  come  home  two  years  ago.  1 
don't  know  that  he  ever  was  projjerly  convinced.  But  these  are 
the  facts." 

'•'Your  mother  was  like  mine.  She  persists  that  my  uncle 
must  be  dead — won't  hear  of  his  being  alive." 

"Without  positive  proof?" 

"  Oh — no  proof  at  all,  at  present.  The  bare  fact  that  he  has 
not  been  seen  for  a  month !  I  was  not  in  favour  of  the  adver- 
tisement, but  I  left  it  with  Scotland  Yard — police  authorities, 
you  know.  'No  doubt  they  know  best."  Fred  didn't  seem  quite 
happy  about  it  thougli. 

Mr.  ]\foring  seemed  to  be  feeling  about  for  something  on  his 
chin,  but  with  his  eyes  on  Fred,  and  a  slightly  puzzled  wrinkle 
round  them.  It  became  more  decisive  as  he  closed  his  lips  tight 
and  apparently  pounced  on  the  something  and  held  it. 

"  It  wasn't  an  advertisement,"  said  he.     "  A  paragraph." 

"'  Well  now ! — I  wonder  who  the  devil  did  that !  "  said  Fred. 

"'  Never  can  tell,  when  it's  the  Press,"  said  Mr.  ]\Ioring. 
"  You  may  break  your  heart  over  trying  to  get  two  lines  in 
that  you  want  jniblished.  Wlien  you  want  to  keep  somethin' 
out,  in  it  goes  of  its  own  accord.  .  .  .  However,  don't  you  let 
your  mother  fret  about  this  old  gentleman.  Tell  her  tlie  story 
I've  told  you.  I  shouldn't  have  raked  it  up,  only  for  the  cir- 
cumstances. We  don't  dare  to  talk  of  it,  because  it  brings 
Societies  down  on  us — people  with  an  interest  in  Phenomena. 
They  want  to  know  whether  my  father  drank.  Anyhow,  it's 
true!  So  don't  you  go  and  believe  your  uncle's  dead,  till  you 
know  it."  At  which  point  the  Professor  came  back,  and  they 
went  into  the  drawing-room  to  the  ladies. 

Fred  felt  grateful  for  any  excuse  for  hoping,  and  dispersing 
the  cloud  upon  his  mind.  He  did  not  believe  the  story  he  had 
just  heard — because  it  was  impossible — but  he  made  use  of  it 
as  a  jurymast,  to  rig  up  the  sails  of  Hope  on;  and  he  meant 
to  pretend  he  believed  it,  for  his  mother's  sake.  He  even  recon- 
structed the  narrator  a  little  in  imagination,  with  a  view  to 
laying  stress  on  his  responsible  character  and  obvious  veracity. 
What  did  it  matter  how  true  or  how  false  the  story  was,  so  long 
as  it  could  be  used  to  shake  that  obstinate  impression  of  his 
mother's  that  his  uncle  was  dead,  and  dead  by  foul  play?     He 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  133 

put  it  by  for  the  moment,  as  valueless,  per  se,  with  a  comforting 
sense  of  how  he  would  utilise  it,  in  the  near  future,  as  an 
anodyne  to  his  mother's  anxiety. 

He  wished  he  could  do  the  same  with  that  other  piece  of 
information  Mr.  Moring  had  just  given  him,  about  the  paragraph 
in  the  Daily  Telegraph.  He  could  not  bring  himself  to  believe 
that  it  had  got  into  the  newspaper  of  its  own  accord.  For  one 
thing,  it  could  not  write  itself — there  must  have  been  some 
penny-a-liner  at  the  bottom  of  that.  It  might  be  that  Scotland 
Yard  had  chosen  this  course  in  preference  to  inserting  the  adver- 
tisement. But  why  act  with  such  promptitude  while  deprecating 
immediate  publicity,  as  Mr.  Manton  had  done?  Surely  all  the 
gossip  and  annoyance  that  might  be  occasioned  by  an  advertise- 
ment v/ould  be  as  nothing  to  what  would  result  from  a  para- 
graph, perhaps  a  conspicuous  one,  in  the  one  or  two  pages  of  a 
widely  circulated  journal  which  its  advertisements  bury  and 
conceal.  For  does  not  the  public  struggle  madly  to  get  at  this 
pith  and  marrow  of  the  daily  Press,  and  fling  aside  the  reams  of 
misstatements  about  the  qualities  and  advantages  of  motor-tyres, 
corsets,  cigarettes,  and  so  forth?  May  not  insertion  of  a  fact  in 
the  advertisement  columns  of  a  big  newspaper  be  considered 
almost  a  sort  of  transitive  way  of  keeping  it  secret ;  the  intransi- 
tive way  being  the  old-fashioned  one  of  holding  one's  tongue 
about  it?  Anyhow,  it  seemed  incredible  that  Manton  should, 
without  consulting  him,  resort  to  an  expedient  likely  to  displease 
relatives  infinitely  more  than  the  simple  official  formula  they 
had  agreed  upon.  No ! — some  fool  or  busybody  had  done  that. 
But  who  gave  him  or  her  the  information?  It  was  not  likely 
to  be  anyone  who  had  an  interest  in  keeping  the  thing  quiet,  as 
for  instance  those  connected  with  the  school,  Mrs.  Orpen  and 
the  chop-jawed  senior  wrangler,  for  instance.  Whom  had  he 
spoken  or  written  to  about  it — Charley  of  course  excepted — other 
than  Cintra  herself?  He  could  think  of  nobody.  Well — there 
icas,  certainly  .  .  .  !  However,  his  imagination  did  not  men- 
tion her  name;  but  her  countenance — eyes,  pearly  teeth,  and  all 
— floated  swiftly  across  the  proscenium,  and  vanished  easily. 
Because  Charley,  you  see,  had  made  himself  responsible  for  her. 

The  Munby  Morings  had  departed,  and  Fred  was  hoping  that 
Miss  Skinner  would  follow  their  example,  when  Cintra  dropped 
an  extinguisher  over  the  flame  of  Hope.  Emily  had  consented 
to  stay,  and  was  apparently  going  to  stay  in  her  hat.  Cintra 
explained  aside  to  Fred  that  he  wasn't  to  get  furious,  because 
poor  Emily  got  away  so  seldom.     As  it  was,  she  would  have  to 


134  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

tear  home  immediately  after  tea;  and  was  it  worth  unpinning 
her  hat,  and  all  the  plague  of  pinning  it  up  again,  just  for  such 
a  little  time?  So  Fred  had  to  pretend  he  was  delighted,  and 
really  he  did  it  very  well,  considering. 

Nevertheless  he  Avished  the  Gainsborough  hat,  its  feather  and 
its  wearer,  hadn't  stayed.  And  if  they  had  gone  home,  he  would 
have  been  able  to  go  for  a  short  walk  with  Cintra,  or  get  a  quiet 
talk  with  her  about  their  future  in  some  quiet  corner.  Anyhow, 
he  would  not  have  felt  that  he  could  retire  and  look  for  that 
paragraph  in  yesterday's  Daily  Telegraph,  which  he  thought  he 
identified  on  a  side-table. 

But  it  wasn't  yesterday's,  nor  any  day's  Daily  Telegraph;  only 
some  provincial  paper  that  looked  just  like  it.  Whereupon  Fred, 
being  thrown  off  his  guard  by  a  question  as  to  what  paper  he  had 
expected  it  to  be,  said  he  had  wanted  to  find  something  in 
yesterday's  Daily  Telegraph,  but  it  didn't  matter. 

Now,  unless  you  are  sure  there  are  no  obliging  people  present, 
the  fewer  things  you  ask  for  the  better.  Make  this  a  guiding  rule 
of  life  !  Fred  should  have  recollected,  before  he  admitted  his  wish 
to  see  yesterday's  Daily  Telegraph,  what  a  very  obliging  person 
his  fiancee's  stepmother  was.  The  moment  she  overheard  it,  she 
was  seized  with  a  feverish  anxiety  to  gratify  that  wish.  He  con- 
tinued to  protest  vainly  that  it  didn't  matter  in  the  very  least, 
that  it  was  not  of  the  slightest  importance  that  he  should  ever 
see  the  paragraph  he  had  wanted  to  hunt  up,  and  finally — in  a 
sort  of  despair — that  he  should  account  it  on  the  whole  to  his 
advantage  if  he  never  saw  another  number  of  the  Daily  Tele- 
graph at  all.  No  representation  of  his  own  wishes  and  interests 
availed  to  head  off  the  obliging  disposition  of  his  hostess,  and 
even  a  well-meant  attempt  on  Cintra's  part  to  stem  it  was  swept 
away  by  the  torrent  of  the  good  lady's  willingness  to  comply  with 
the  wishes  of  her  guest. 

"  No,  my  dear  Cintra,  don't  talk,  but  go  into  the  hack  room 
and  look  in  the  ottoman  7iear  the  window,  and  on  the  left-hand 
side  you  will  find  all  the  Daily  Telegraphs  for  a  fortnight." 
Cintra  went  to  look,  and  Fred  went  to  help.  The  speaker  con- 
tinued, plaintively,  addressing  Miss  Skinner,  who  was  watching 
viciously  for  an  opportunity  to  be  of  use : — "  I  would  go  at  once 
myself,  only  for  my  leg."  She  filled  in  the  absence  of  the  searcher 
with  a  brief  account  of  her  attitude  towards  the  daily  Press.  "  I 
never  alloAV  a  newspaper  less  than  a  fortnight  old  to  be  destroyed 
in  this  house.  Then  and  not  before,  they  may  have  them  for 
the  kitchen.     They  are  all  kept,  even  the  advertisements  and  the 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  135 

City  articles.  Professor  Fraser  is  Method  Itself,  and  I  need  not 
say  his  wish  is  my  law." 

Fred  kept  his  counsel  about  the  paragraph  he  wanted  to  find 
in  the  Daily  Telegraph,  and  was  glad  he  had  done  so  when  he 
found  it.  For  it  was  this : — "  Mysterious  Disappearance — Friends 
and  admirers  of  the  well-known  and  much-beloved  headmaster  of 
Vexton  Stultifer  School  will  be  concerned  to  hear  that  fears  are 
entertained  for  his  personal  safet3^  It  appears  that  he  has  not 
been  seen  since  the  thirteenth  of  last  month,  the  Saturday  pre- 
vious to  the  Monday  on  which  that  ancient  and  celebrated 
scholastic  establishment  reopened  its  doors  after  the  Easter 
holiday.  On  the  afternoon  of  that  day  he  left  the  house  of 
his  sister-in-law,  a  widow  lady  residing  at  Maida  Vale,  intending 
to  return  to  the  school  without,  delay,  according  to  his  invariable 
practice  at  the  beginning  of  every  term.  It  seems  that  he  shared 
the  objection  so  many  religious  persons,  however  liberal,  still  feel 
about  Sunday  travelling."  Fred  felt  very  indignant  at  this 
absurdity,  knowing  that  his  uncle's  reason  for  wishing  to  return 
on  the  Saturday  was  that  he  might  have  the  Sunday  undisturbed 
for  correspondence.  He  went  on  reading : — "  However  this  may 
be,  it  is  certain  that  he  left  Wimbledon  station  by  the  five  p.m. 
for  Exeter,  having  in  the  interim  transacted  some  business  in  the 
neighbourhood,  on  account  of  which  he  had  preferred  to  join  his 
train  at  Wimbledon  rather  than  to  start  as  usual  from  Waterloo, 
It  is  practically  certain  that  he  did  not  arrive  at  Exeter,  where 
he  was  personally  known,  and  where  his  familiar  and  command- 
ing figure  could  not  possibly,  in  the  opinion  of  the  railway  staff, 
have  escaped  observation.  Conjectures  are  afoot  that  he  may 
have  been  inveigled  from  the  train  between  Wimbledon  and 
Exeter,  but  these  theories  do  not  find  favour  with  those  who 
knew  the  resolute  and  shrewd  character  of  the  missing  gentle- 
man. On  enquiry  at  Scotland  Yard,  our  messenger  found  the 
police  officials  very  reticent  on  the  subject,  but  we  understand 
that  they  are  in  possession  of  a  clue,  of  which  no  doubt  every 
advantage  will  be  taken." 

Fred  had  remained  in  the  back  drawing-room  to  read  this, 
and  Cintra  had  rejoined  her  friend  in  the  front  one.  As  he  sat 
on  the  ottoman  in  the  window  reading  the  foregoing,  his  indig- 
nation at  its  impertinence  did  not  prevent  one  of  his  ears  hear- 
ing the  Gainsborough  hat's  frequent  reference  to  "  him  and  her  " 
— some  extraneous  him  and  her — in  a  narrative  clearly  full  of 
dramatic  interest,  judged  by  Cintra's  reception  of  it.  He  was 
conscious — or   rather,   convinced — that  the   reason   her  obliging 


136  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

stepmother  was  silent  was  because  she  was  leaning  back  in  her 
armchair  for  barely  three  minutes  with  her  eyes  closed.  It  did 
her  so  much  good  that  sometimes  you  would  not  have  known  lier 
for  the  same  person.  Outside  on  the  landing  he  could  hear  the 
Professor,  returning  from  a  second  collision  with  dinitro-methy- 
late  of  tuluol,  or  something  equally  disastrous,  in  a  colloquy  Avith 
his  youngest  son,  whose  loquacity  was  excessive.  It  was  the  sort 
of  time  when  he  was  allowed  down  from  the  nursery,  and  on 
these  occasions  it  was  impossible  to  hear  yourself  speak  for  him. 
The  story  is  availing  itself  of  the  methods  of  speech  of  its 
informants. 

The  stepmother  woke  with  a  start  just  as  Fred  was  about  to  dis- 
turb Miss  Skinner's  narrative  with  an  enquiry  about  that  number 
of  the  Daily  Telegraph.  Oh  dear— she  had  been  asleep!  Then 
she  became  aware  that  he  was  asking  if  the  number  was  wanted, 
or  might  he  cut  something  out  of  it?  iShe  was  immediately 
seized  with  a  desire  to  supply  a  tool  for  the  purpose.  Cintra 
must  forthwith  look  in  the  side-drawer  of  her  writing-table,  and 
be  very  careful  to  pull  only  the  right-hand  knob,  because  the  left 
one  came  out.  There  she  would  find,  palpable  to  the  naked 
eye,  her  pair  of  scissors  with  the  real  morocco  leather  on  the 
handles.  These  might  be  used,  only  carefully,  to  cut  out  a  para- 
graph from  a  newspaper,  even  the  Daily  Telegraph.  Fred  vainly 
endeavoured  to  evade  these  scissors,  representing  that  his  pocket- 
knife  was  especially  suited  for  the  cutting  of  paragraphs  out  of 
daily  papers.  Had  the  excellent  lady  been  Atropos  herself,  and 
the  loan  of  the  accursed  shears  been  in  question,  it  would  not 
have  been  more  difficult  to  escape  from  thom  without  giving 
offence.  He  was  compelled  not  only  to  submit  to  the  obligation, 
but  to  appreciate  the  boon;  which  was  the  more  difficult  l)ecause 
the  red  morocco  handles  were  curly,  the  rings  too  small  for  his 
fingers,  and  the  clip-screw  loose.  How  he  wished  he  had  thrust 
the  paper  bodily  in  his  pocket,  and  kept  silence  about  it ! 

However,  he  made  use  of  the  scissors  a  conire-camr,  and  had 
just  got  through  his  difficulties  when  the  Professor  entered,  with 
his  son  on  his  shoulder,  still  conversing  fluently  and  intelli- 
gently on  several  topics.  His  nursemaid's  raiment  was  the  one 
that  engaged  his  attention  at  the  moment. 

"  Marfer  has  holes  in  her  tockings,  and  I  putted  my  fum  in 
ve  big  hole."  This  appeared  to  exhaust  that  portion  of  the 
subject.  "  O'ym  royd'n  on  parpar  like  oy  rode  ve  donkey  when 
we  wented  to  Lamsdick,  and  I  wasn't  frightened.  Ve  little  durl 
was  took  off  because  she  tried.     I  didn't  tried,  because  I  was  a 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  137 

big  boy.  Vere  was  swimps  that  kicked  because  they  wasn't 
boiled.  And  there  was  a  scrab  wiv  sisk  legs  and  two  sclaws." 
At  this  point  these  recollections  of  Ramsgate  were  interrupted  by 
his  detecting  the  scissors  with  the  red  morocco  handles,  on  the 
writing-table.  He  showed  decision.  "  I  wants  vose  iidders !  ''' 
he  said.  "  Yere  my  marmar's,  and  oy  wants  'em  to  cut  elephants 
and  gooses  out  of  paper." 

"  Easy — easy — easy,  young  man !  "  said  the  Professor,  en- 
deavouring to  moderate  an  eagerness  to  descend  perilously  up- 
side down.  "  You  shall  have  the  scissors  and  cut  out  geese  and 
elephants — only,  don't  be  in  a  hurry !  Whatever  you  do,  do  it 
gently.     ]VAa^,  my  love?  " 

His  better  half  was  intoning  to  herself  passages  from  a  kind 
of  Litany  of  unobtrusiveness  and  humility : — *'  If  I  could  be 
heard — but  I  cannot  raise  my  voice.  I  know  I  shall  not  be 
listened  to — so  it  is  useless  for  me  to  speak,"  and  so  forth,  as  a 
means  of  getting  possession  of  the  rostrum.  Having  succeeded 
in  this  object,  she  enacted  that  persons  of  tender  years  should 
not  be  trusted  with  scissors,  or  other  deadly  weapons  on  wliich 
they  might  impale  themselves.  "■  But,"  she  said,  falling  back  on 
the  Litany,  "  whatever  I  say,  I  know  beforehand  that  no  atten- 
tion will  he  paid  to  it." 

"  Lord,  my  love,"  said  the  indulgent  Professor.  "  I  shall  be 
close  to  him,  and  see  that  he  doesn't  cut  himself.  He  shan't 
spoil  your  scissors.  Besides," — he  added,  as  a  motive  of  self- 
interest — "  if  he  doesn't  get  them,  he'll  howl." 

"  I  was  not  thinking  of  the  scissors,  though  they  belonged  to 
ray  great-aunt  Mary."  This  was  said  in  a  freezing  tone,  followed 
by  a  resigned  one : — "  But,  whatever  happens,  I  shall  have  done 
my  best.  He  is  your  child.  Professor  Fraser."  She  spoke  as 
though  she  were  responsible  for  several  families  imputable  to 
departed  or  divorced  male  parents.  Meanwhile  her  established 
offspring  had  possessed  himself  of  Aunt  Mary's  scissors,  and 
was  applying  to  Mr.  Tarcrick — his  name  for  Fred — for  the 
concession  of  the  newspaper  from  which  he  had  just  made  a 
cutting.  Fred  considered — as  he  supposed  the  paper  would 
hardly  be  wanted — that  the  safest  course  all  round  would  be  to 
take  this  precocious  child  upon  his  knee  and  cut  him  out  an 
elephant. 

The  Professor  was  much  interested  in  this  concession  of  his 
intended  son-in-law,  who  went  up  in  his  good  opinion.  He 
watched  with  satisfaction  the  evolution  of  a  single  elephant 
and  hailed  its  image  as  a  work  of  Art.     He  held  it  up  against 


138  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

the  light.  "  Quite  a  splendid  elephant !  "  he  said.  "  Now, 
Conrad,  if  you're  a  good  boy  and  your  father's  own  son,  j^ou 
will  thank  Mr.  Tarcrick  cordially  for  all  the  trouble  he  has  taken 
in  your  behalf.     Elephants  indeed!  " 

But  Conrad's  haughty  spirit  resented  any  idea  of  gratitude. 
An  unholy  expression  of  defiance  and  rebellion  stole  over  his 
countenance.  "  I  sarn't  fank  no  peoples,"  he  said,  contuma- 
ciously. 

"  Very  well,"  said  his  father.  "  Then  you  shan't  have  your 
elephant  back."  But  Conrad  simply  traversed  this  statement, 
without  emotion.  "  I  sail,"  said  he.  Whereupon  the  Professor 
decided  to  fold  up  the  elephant,  and  put  him  in  his  pocket. 

Now,  it  chanced  that  on  the  line  of  the  elephant's  back,  just 
where  his  howdah  would  have  crossed  it,  was  a  portion  of  the 
name  and  date  of  the  newspaper.  And  as  the  Professor  was 
folding  him  somewhat  slowly  and  ostentatiously,  his  eye  was 
caught  by  it,  and  his  fingers  arrested.  He  exclaimed : — "  But, 
my  love,  this  is  yesterday's  paper !  This — is — tlie  paper,  or  I'm 
very  much  mistaken,  containing  that  letter  of  Schreichlichreicher 
of  Berlin  about  the  employment  of  minute  quantities  of  chloride 
of  gold  as  a  manure.     I  particularly  wanted  that  letter  kept." 

His  lady  yielded  herself  a  prey  to  despair.  "  I  have  so  many 
things  to  think  of,"  she  wailed,  collapsing. 

"  Well,  well,  my  dear !  I  daresay  I  was  impatient.  But  the 
mischief  isn't  done — isn't  done.  Schreichlichreicher's  letter 
hasn't  run  away.  ...  Oh  no — I'm  sure  it  was  in  this  paper, 
yesterday  morning."  He  went  on  to  examine  each  column,  to 
find  it. 

Fred  picked  up  the  elephant  and  overhauled  his  flanks,  which 
were  all  servants  seeking  places  on  one  side,  and  estates  with 
shooting  on  the  other.  "  There,  there !  There  he  is  back 
again !  "  said  he.  "  Spraddle  out  his  legs  and  he'll  walk !  " 
This  was  to  pacify  Conrad.  He  then  helped  in  the  search,  tak- 
ing another  sheet.  The  innocent  prattle  of  ]\Iiss  Skinner,  with 
its  slight  flavour  of  the  Sexes,  reached  him  from  the  window- 
corner,  where  it  was  absorbing  Cintra's  attention. 

"  No,  Cit  dy'a !  He  never  did.  That's  just  where  I  blame 
him.  He  took  ahsoJutehj  no  notice  of  her  letter.  She  came  to 
me  naturally  for  advice;  and,  Cit  dy'a,  I  do  hope  you  will  agree 
that  what  I  said  was  wisest  under  the  circumstances.  .  .  .  Oh 
yes,  my  dy'a,  I  spoke  quite  plainly,  and  I'm  sure  she  understood. 
There  could  be  no  mistake.  I  said  ire  must  have  the  laundress 
girl's  own  statement,  before  forming  any  opinion.   ...   Oh  yes 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  139 

— I  asked  about  her  looks  .  .  .  well — the  sort  of  girl  that  sort 
of  man  admires.  You  know.  I  don't  think  her  being  on  the 
chorus  at  the  Proscenium  has  anything  to  do  with  it.  Besides, 
I  am  told  that  all  the  girls  there  have  the  liighcst  character; 
curates'  daughters,  I  believe !  So  I  spoke  plainl3^  '  You  know, 
my  dear,'  I  said  to  Apollonia,  '  it  all  turns  on  whether  the  packet 
of  soap  was  paid  for,  and  how  long  it  lasted.  There  can  be  no 
possible  reason  for  keeping  anything  back.  So  I  should  just 
write  and  say  so  to  his  half-sister,  and  tell  her  to  mind  her  own 
business.'  Of  course^  Cit  dy'a,  1  don't  know  exactly  what  she 
said,  or  how  she  said  it.  But  the  fact  remains,  that  he  has 
taken  ahsohdehj  no  notice.  And  as  for  the  door  having  been 
left  standing  open,  that  remains  exactly  where  it  was.    ..." 

And  so  on.  Fred  and  the  Professor  finished  their  exploration 
in  the  Daily  Telegraph  about  the  same  time,  and  each  admitted 
his  failure  to  the  other  with  a  shrug.  "  But,''  said  the  latter,  "  is 
it  certain  the  letter  isn't  on  the  back  of  the  piece  you  cut  out  ?  " 
Fred  was  nearly  sure  that  was  a  law- report,  something  about  the 
salvage  of  a  ship.  He  had  looked  to  see.  The  Professor  referred 
to  the  gap  of  excision,  and  found  confirmation.  Possibly,  a  long 
ship  case  !  "  Very  funny !  "  said  he.  "  I  must  have  mistaken 
the  day.  Friday's  paper,  no  doubt!  Don't  hunt  for  the  cutting. 
It  doesn't  matter."  Fred  accepted  this  easily,  as  he  wished 
to  keep  his  own  paragraph  in  the  dark. 

Miss  Skinner  was  obliged  to  rush  away,  as  it  was  past  half- 
past  five.  She  did  so  with  a  tempestuous  vigour  that  seemed  at 
odds  with  an  expressed  desire  to  mar  no  tranquillity;  to  be,  as 
it  were,  a  cypher  in  daily  life.  It  would  have  been  as  easy  to 
credit  with  sincerity  a  whirlwind's  apologies  to  the  sands  of 
the  desert.  However,  she  did  go,  and  peace  reigned.  Fred 
assuaged  Conrad  with  profiles  of  animals  to  order,  cut  from  the 
newspaper,  even  as  the  inhabitants  of  storyland  had  to  keep 
Dragons  satisfied  with  Princesses.  Cintra,  over  Fred's  shoulder, 
observed  the  operation  with  suggestions.  ]\Ieanwhile  her  father, 
at  ease  about  the  morals  of  his  youngest,  who  was  being  good, 
chatted  before  the  fire  about  the  use  of  chloride  of  gold  as  a 
manure;  she  offered  to  hunt  up  the  newspaper  containing  the 
missing  letter.  "  It  won't  take  five  minutes  to  find,  you  foolish 
old  Papa,"  said  Cintra. 

"  Oh  no  no  no  no  no !  "  said  he,  disclamatorily.  "  Not  the 
least  necessity !  Doesn't  matter  having  it  now.  Only  see  that 
it's  not  thrown  away."  He  revised  the  merits  of  the  German 
Professor's  proposal,  and  her  stepmother  thought  it  becoming  to 


140  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

profess  an  interest — though,  a  patronising  one — in  manure  gen- 
erally, and  a  specially  respectful  one  in  chloride  of  gold  for  its 
own  sake.  "  It  certainly  appears  to  me,"  said  he,  "  that  Schleich- 
richreiclicr  may  bo  right;  that  is,  if  his  datum — which  1  gather 
has  the  authority  of  Nichtraucher  of  Leipzig — is  correct  about 
the  percentage  of  gold  required,  to  sterilise  the  bacillus  of  his 
newly  discovered  microbe,  bacteria  nonconformis.  He  places  it 
at  one  ten-thousandth  of  a  gramme  for  every  cubic  metre  of 
arable  soil.  This  would  be  at  the  rate  of  one-tenth  of  a  milli- 
gramme for  each  cubic  metre,  or  say  one  milligramme  to  ten 
cubic  metres.  ...  I  know  it  works  out  in  practice  at  about 
b.rcnty  pounds  worth  of  gold  to  the  square  mile." 

"  But,  my  love,"  said  his  lady-wife,  addressing  him  from  an 
elevation,  but  with  exemplary  patience ;  "  have  j^ou  considered  ? 
Think  what  the  farmer  could  buy  with  that  twenty  pounds,  if  he 
devoted  it  to  the  purchase  of  necessaries  for  his  household,  in- 
stead of  squandering  it  on  filthy  manure.  I  cannot  persuade  you 
to  ihink.     Fancy  twenty  iclwle  pounds  spent  on  manure!  " 

"  My  dear  Felicia,  it's  no  use  saying  have  /  considered.  Have 
you  considered?  Work  it  out  at  per  acre !  "  The  Professor  pro- 
ceeded to  show  that,  supposing  the  bacillus  of  bacteria  noncon- 
formis died  childless,  the  value  of  the  crop  of  each  acre  would  be 
doubled,  showing  a  net  profit  of  Lord-knows-what. 

Felicia  replied  that  it  was  useless  to  talk  to  her  about  net 
profits,  because  her  poor  head  could  not  endure  such  things ;  but 
one  thing  she  must  say,  that  gold  was  gold,  and  money  was 
money,  and  it  was  sinful  to  thiow  either  of  them  away.  She 
confessed  herself  surprised  at  Science,  and — briefly  speaking — 
"wondered  it  was  not  ashamed  to  talk  such  nonsense. 

The  Professor  smiled  as  one  who  could  afford  to  smile,  and 
said  magnanimously : — "  It  is  only  fair  to  observe  that  our 
friend  Schleichrichreicher  is  a  Socialist,  and  sees  in  this  method 
a  means  towards  the  Eedistribution  of  Property — of  the  most 
obnoxious  form  thereof;  in  fact  the  one  which  is  responsible  for 
the  existence  of  Persons  of  Property.  I  must  allow  in  fairness 
that  I  think  him  plausible  on  this  point." 

"How  does  he  manage  that?"  said  Fred.  He  was  just  com- 
pleting an  elephant  with  several  legs  like  a  centipede,  by  re- 
quest. The  centre  of  gravity  of  the  first  elephant  had,  by  reason 
of  the  size  of  his  head  and  trunk,  crept  in  front  of  his  forelegs, 
so  that  he  fell  forward  at  intervals.  Conrad's  excitement  threat- 
ened to  become  uncontrollable. 

"  Don't  kick,  darling !  "  said  Cintra.     "  Or  Mr.  Tarcrick  will 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  141 

have  to  put  jou  down.   .    .    .   Yes,  Papa  dear! — how  does  the 
German  with  the  long  name  manage  that?   .    .    .   You  said  jou 

thought  him  plausible." 

"  Schreichlichreicher — oh  yes  ! — I  think  him  plausible.  His 
Tiew  is  that  this  employment  of  gold  in  the  form  of  chloride 
will  be  so  profitable  that  all  the  gold  will  be  withdrawn  from 
circulation  to  sterilise  his  bacillus.  It  will  be  distributed 
through  the  world's  arable  land  in  such  minute  quantities  that 
the  recovery  of  it  will  be  commercially  out  of  the  question. 
Five  shillings  worth  of  gold  will  cost  five  pounds  to  recover." 

"  I  see.  But  then  we  shall  have  to  go  without  food  and 
clothes.  .  .  .  Yes,  we  shall,  if  we  have  no  money  to  buj 
them  ! !  "     Cintra  said  this. 

The  Professor  admitted  difficulties ;  but  then,  said  he,  no 
entirely  new  scheme  is  without  its  difficulties.  We  must  remem- 
ber that  no  two  advocates  of  Socialism  were  agreed  about  itf 
details;  or,  he  might  add,  its  fundamental  principles.  But  he 
agreed  with  Schreichlichreicher  this  far,  that  his  system  would 
very  soon  diffuse  the  whole  of  the  available  gold  in  the  world 
through  the  soil  of  its  agricultural  districts,  doubling  its  output 
while  absorbing  the  present  currency.  ''  However,"  said  he,  con- 
sulting his  watch;  "I  must  be  off  or  I  shan't  catch  Hopkins.'* 
As  the  story  has  no  need  to  know  who  Hopkins  was,  nor  why  thi 
Professor  wanted  to  catch  him  at  that  late  hour  on  Sundaj 
afternoon,  it  has  made  no  enquiry  about  him. 


11 


CHAPTER  X 

"  I  HOPE  they  hadn't  been  quarrelling,"  said  Nancy  to  herself 
as  she  slowed  down  for  the  first  turning  after  leaving  The  Jessa- 
mines. For  it  is  not  until  your  female  bicyclist,  or  anybody's, 
is  sure  she  is  started,  and  that  her  brakes  are  working  right,  and 
her  skirts  graciously  disposed,  that  she  can  begin  to  soliloquise. 
Or  rather,  perhaps,  to  think  what  she  would  say  if  she  did 
soliloquise. 

So  suppose  we  say  this  was  what  Nancy  thought  to  herself. 
Anyhow,  it  was  followed  by  the  thought  that  she  wondered  what 
liad  made  her  think  so.  One  can't  always  account  for  one's 
impressions.  But,  if  they  were  quarrelling,  she  knew  what  it 
was  about.  Sure  of  that!  Well — come  now! — she  would  be 
candid  with  her  own  conscience  and  word  her  knowledge  other- 
wise. She  knew  ivho  it  was  about.  There  now !  Was  Con- 
science satisfied?  Yes — Conscience  was,  not  being  hypercritical 
•about  grammar. 

She  and  Conscience  between  them  dramatised  the  incidents  of 
her  sister's  welcomiC  to  her  lover  which  took  place  half-an-hour 
before  she  looked  in  to  say  how-do-you-do  and  good-bye  in  one 
to  him.  First  there  would  be  questions  to  answer  about  his 
uncle ;  a  matter  of  course  !  But  what  would  come  next  ?  Well 
— naturally — the  new  fiancee,  Mr.  Snaith's.  They  had  never 
talked  her  over,  unless  it  were  by  letter.  Nancy  felt  sure  that 
Cintra  had  never  deliberaialy  written  to  Fred  such  a  fulmination 
against  the  beauty  as  she  had  indulged  in  as  they  rode  home  after 
meeting  her.  Suppose  that  "Jie  had  given  Fred  a  like  dose  of 
her  first  impressions  that  morning.  Plenty  of  materials  for 
"  words  "  there  I 

Consider  how  hand-and-glove  these  two  young  men  were — 
"  never  out  of  each  other's  mouths  "  was  a  curious  expression 
she  herself  had  applied  to  them — and,  apart  from  that,  how 
favourably  impressed  Fred  had  seemed  to  be  about  his  friend's 
lady-love.  For  that  was  the  way  she  and  Conscience  agreed  to 
describe  the  effect  produced  on  him  by  that  young  beauty.  It 
was  part  of  the  crystal  purity  of  this  young  woman's  soul  that 
she  would  put  each  pair  of  declared  lovers  in  a  ring-fence.  Her 
convicfion  that  no  one  of  them  could  ever,  in  the  nature  of 

142 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  143 

things — among  decent  people,  that  is — be  found  inside  another 
ring-fence  than  his  or  her  own,  was  unshakable.  Fred  was 
assigned  to  her  sister  and  the  beauty  to  Mr.  Snaith,  and  the 
state  of  things  so  constituted  was  unchangeable.  As  to  any 
possibility  that  this  Miss  Lucy  Hinchliffe  might  herself  be  un- 
stable, that  did  not  form  part  of  her  reflections.  According  to 
Nancy,  beauty  and  goodness  always  went  hand  in  hand.  More- 
over, how  could  devotion  to  anything  so  ugly  as  Mr.  Charles 
Snaith  be  founded  on  anything  short  of  Predestination ;  soul 
meeting  soul,  and  so  forth?  What  better  test  of  the  reality  of 
Love  could  there  be  than  the  repellent  ugliness  of  one  of  its 
objects?  Two  human  monsters — such,  for  instance,  as  Mr. 
Snaith  and  a  feminine  equivalent — might  be  drawn  together  by 
sympathy  for  each  other's  misfortune.  But  Beauty  and  Beast 
could  only  become  bride  and  bridegroom  when  Beauty  had  some 
clue  to  the  Beast's  soul  other  than  his  personal  appearance.  On 
the  whole,  Nancy  felt  glad  she  herself  was  lacking  in  spiritual 
insight.  Who  could  say  what  sort  of  a  guy  this  mental  short- 
coming might  not  save  her  from?  For  she  clung  to — or  rather 
was  clung  to  by — an  idea  that  she  should  marry,  as  other  girls 
did.  It  was  rather  an  expression  of  acquiescence  in  Destiny 
than  either  a  creed  or  a  hope. 

These  points  occupied  her  mind  as  far  as  Streatham  Common. 
There,  the  arriving  at  the  turning  she  and  her  sister  took  when 
they  went  to  look  at  the  Old  j\Iadhouse,  and  the  fact  that  this 
time  she  did  not  turn  down  it,  set  her  a  thinking  of  the  inex- 
plicable vanishment  of  Fred's  uncle.  Of  course  she  was  not 
touched  personally — only  just  seen  him,  no  more — and  had  not 
thought  him  lovable  exactly.  "  Eather  a  peremptory  sort  of  old 
gentleman,"  was  the  way  she  had  described  him  afterwards.  It 
was  only  when  she  came  to  know  of  this  painful  occurrence  that 
she  had  resuscitated  the  slight  memory  she  had  of  him. 

She  was  so  detached  from  him  that  she  scarcely  rebuked  her 
inner  consciousness  for  wondering  whether  his  disappearance, — 
in  view  of  its  probable  action  as  a  skid  on  the  wheel  of  the 
lovers'  eagerness  to  possess  The  Cedars — ought  not  to  be  con- 
sidered a  godsend.  But  it  was  a  nasty  selfish  idea,  and  she  told 
it  so.  Poor  old  Dr.  Carteret !  Who  could  be  sure  he  was  not 
lying  dead  under  a  hedge  somewhere?  Not  that  she  was  going 
to  believe  that  till  she  was  forced  to  do  so  by  revealed  facts. 
There  jnust  be  some  solution  of  the  puzzle  short  of  murder  or 
suicide,  some  unturned  stone  in  the  desert  where  it  was  hidden. 

She  racked  her  brain  to  devise  a  possibility  to  fit  the  occasion. 


144  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

but  without  much  effect.  Admitting  murder,  it  was  easy  to 
imagine  any  number  of  methods  to  which  an  able-bodied  and 
resourceful  murderer  might  resort.  But  her  object  was  to  ex- 
clude murder  altogether  and  find  another  solution ;  one  that 
would  admit  of  a  reappearance  of  the  Doctor  in  the  flesh.  Kid- 
napping sounded  well,  but  did  not  bear  examination.  Her  recol- 
lection of  the  massive  figure,  over  six  feet  high,  made  her  ask 
herself  how  a  kidnapper  would  have  gone  about  his  job.  How 
would  you  kidnap  an  elephant?  She  had  read  somewhere  of 
subterranean  bakehouses  in  ancient  Rome,  which  used  to  catch 
the  public  through  trap  doors,  and  compel  it  to  make  bread  for 
ever  against  its  will.  But  she  found  that  she  only  believed  that 
story  because  it  was  ancient  Eome,  and  History.  She  felt 
certain  no  such  trap  doors  existed  in  England,  now.  She  didn't 
see  either  that  the  victims  in  these  cases  were  so  much  better 
off  than  if  they  had  been  honourably  murdered. 

She  was  driven  back  as  a  last  resource  on  the  theory  that  he 
had  fallen  asleep  in  the  train,  slept  through  all  the  stations  in 
Exeter,  and  waked  to  find  himself  in  Cornwall.  She  remem- 
bered with  what  horror  she  had  looked  down  the  shaft  of  a 
disused  tin  mine,  and  the  obvious  ease  with  which  an  adven- 
turous stranger  might  climb  the  paling  that  kept  cattle  off,  and 
pitch  himself  headlong  to  the  bottom.  She  constructed  a  wildly 
improbable  episode  of  the  recovery  of  the  Doctor's  mangled 
corpse  from  such  a  trap,  its  slow  resuscitation  at  a  neighbouring 
farmhouse,  and  any  amount  of  ditficulty  in  establishing  the 
whence  and  wherefore  of  a  man  without  anything  to  identify 
him  in  his  pockets — here  the  theory  showed  weakness — but  with 
insensibility  enough  for  its  purpose,  that  of  disestablishing 
speech  or  writing.  She  worked  this  idea  all  the  way  to  Tooting 
Common,  always  with  a  painful  sense  of  imaginary  investigators 
— police  or  others — only  failing  to  track  the  object  of  their 
search  from  sheer  stupidity.  She  was  compelled  in  the  end  to 
leave  that  hypothetical  corpse  at  the  bottom  of  that  mine,  prob- 
ably under  water.  For  she  knew  that  disused  mines  become 
reservoirs. 

She  was  not,  however,  so  very  long  over  any  of  these  specula- 
tions, for  she  was  scorching  recklessly  to  be  in  time  for  lunch. 
Hov.'ever,  Chelsea  clock  was  still  clear  that  it  was  ten  minutes 
to  one  when  she  was  crossing  Battersea  Bridge.  Plenty  of  time ! 
She  brought  her  speed  down  to  reason,  and  sounded  her  bell 
religiously. 

Well,  she  could  not  be  expected  to  feel  Dr.  Carteret's  disap- 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  145 

pearance  as  she  would  no  doubt  have  done  had  she  known  him 
for  a  long  time,  but  she  could  and  did  feel  it  deeply  on  his 
sister-in-law's  behalf.  She  had  seen  how  powerfully  it  had  af- 
fected her  friend,  and  something  in  the  way  that  friend  had 
spoken  of  the  missing  man  had  reached  her  imagination,  and 
made  her  think  that  the  ordinary  cordiality  of  feeling  for  a  hus- 
band's brother  had  gone  near  to  becoming  that  of  an  actual 
sister,  and  an  affectionate  one.  Of  course  the  sheer  horror  of  it 
— for  nothing  can  ever  surpass  that  of  the  unaccountaljle  disap- 
pearance of  a  perfectly  sane  man — outweighed  everything  else 
while  the  thing  was  still  so  recent.  Nancy  could  see  that  plainly. 
Still,  the  way  Mrs.  Carteret  had  spoken  of  him  was  nearer  what 
Nancy  would  have  expected  had  he  been  an  own  brother.  That 
was  all  she  could  say  to  herself  as  she  turned  into  Kensington 
High  Street,  and  had  to  suspend  reflections  for  a  moment  be- 
cause of  the  traffic. 

The  dignified  repose  of  Palace  Gardens — where  Nancy  believed 
herself  a  trespasser,  but  knew  no  gate-warden  could  catch  her — 
brought  back  the  lost  thread.  It  made  no  pretence  that  it  had 
not  had  a  business  consideration  in  view  all  the  time;  namely, 
the  delay  which  would  probably  occur  in  settling  that  co-tenancy 
of  The  Cedars.  Perhrps  it  would  bo  better,  on  the  whole,  if  all 
the  four  of  them  would  give  up  the  idea,  and  try  to  find  reason- 
able domiciles  apart.  For  was  not  the  whole  thing  founded  on 
the  cedar  trees;  the  large  garden;  the  great  drawing-room;  the 
staircases  and  their  magnificent  black  balustrades;  and  above  all 
on  the  stonecrop,  moss,  and  lichen,  which  had  maintained  their 
fascination  even  when  visited  in  the  depth  of  winter,  but  which 
the  builder  would  destroy  the  moment  he  was  left  alone  with 
them?  Nancy  resolved  that  she  would  use  all  her  influence  with 
her  sister  to  induce  her  to  relinquish  the  preposterous  scheme. 
Cintra  was  the  only  difficulty.  Fred  might  be  relied  on  to  feel 
lukewarm,  at  least,  about  it  unless — as  Nancy  fervently  hoped 
had  happened,  and  that  she  was  just  going  to  hear  of  it — the 
missing  man  should  turn  up  alive  and  well,  and  fuming  with 
indignation  at  the  non-delivery  of  some  letter,  essential  to  the 
explanation  of  the  mystery.  That  was  really  the  most  probable 
end  of  it  all.  People  were  always  getting  in  a  fuss  about 
nothing. 

How  to  keep  up  to  a  mile  in  four  minutes,  through  continuous 
traffic  in  crowded  streets,  drove  everything  out  of  her  head  till 
she  reached  the  railway-bridge-land  wliich  separates  two  nations, 
unlike  one  another  in  all  essentials^  though  superficially  alike 


146  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

in  some  respects.  A  dweller  in  the  St.  John's  Wood  zone  makes 
an  outward  show  of  being  a  fellow-creature  of  a  resident  in 
Bayswater  proper — though  all  Bavswater  is  proper,  for  that 
matter — but  is  at  heart  another  personality.  Try  being  both, 
and  see !  Nancy,  happening  to  have  no  N.W.  connection  except 
this  one,  resulting  from  her  sister's  engagement  to  Fred,  always 
felt  on  the  railway-bridge  as  though  she  were  passing  a  frontier, 
and  that  really  there  ought  to  be  gendarmes.  This  time  another 
feeling  crept  in.  Say  what  you  might,  human  affairs  were  jolly 
unstable.  Suppose  her  connection  with  N.W.  was  hanging  in 
the  balance,  and  this  was  her  last  bridge  crossing !  But  really 
— stop!  They  were  not  quarrelling,  and  there  was  no  reason 
why  they  should  quarrel.  All  the  same,  she  wished  she  had  not 
caught  herself  noticing  that  they  were  at  peace. 

Anyhow,  she  was  not  going  to  have  her  adoration  of  the  young 
gentleman's  mother  interrupted  by  any  foolish  lovers'  quarrels. 
Why — they  would  make  it  up  again,  as  like  as  not!  And  how 
then?  The  thought  scarcely  found  words  as  definite  as  these. 
They  might  have  done  so  though,  had  she  not  arrived  at  her 
destination. 

"  Well  ?  "  This  was  exclamation  and  question  in  one,  neck 
and  neck  with  her  entry  into  the  well-ordered  drawing-room, 
sweet  with  the  zest  of  its  window  conservatory,  through  which  a 
south  wind  was  saying  something  about  the  spring;  and  that  it 
was  like  this  last  year,  and  the  year  before. 

"  No — we  have  heard  nothing.  And  shall  hear  nothing  un- 
til ..  .  But  you  know  what  I  think.  Don't  let's  talk  about  it." 
All  the  weariness  and  the  pain  of  the  prolonged  anxiety  was  in 
her  words.  But  the  tempestuous  bicyclist,  coming  in  after  a 
final  rush  against  the  wind,  seemed  good  for  her.  "  How  fresh 
you  are,  Nancy  dearest!  "  said  she,  inhaling  the  freshness  during 
a  kiss.  It  reached  her  heart  through  her  lungs  somehow,  and 
made  it  happier.  She  interrupted  an  apology  for  lateness.  "  Oh 
no — that's  all  right!  I  very  seldom  get  lunch  till  a  quarter 
to  two." 

Then  Nancy  asked  again,  timorously,  for  possible  news,  and 
was  again  met  with  :—"  Nothing — nothing — don't  let's  talk 
about  it !  "  somewhat  impatiently. 

So  she  went  off  candidly  to  generalities.  "  I  had  the  most 
delicious  ride.  ...  Oh  yes — Fred  liad  come.  I  left  them  in 
eacli  other's  arms  all  right.  At  least " — Nancy  added,  pouring 
out  more  fizz-water  to  quench  an  overwhelming  thirst;  for  this 
was  in  the  dining-room,  later;  or  perhaps  we  should  say  in  the 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  147 

breakfast-room  downstairs,  which  was  more  convenient  for  the 
waiting — "  they  were  all  right  then.  But  I  fancy  they  had  had 
a  little  tiff.  .  .  .  Well — yes — they  had  had  time.  Fred  had 
been  there  half  an  hour  before  I  came  in."  With  this  girl,  the 
slightest  suspicion  in  her  own  mind  that  she  was  keeping  any- 
thing back  was  an  instant  signal  for  saying  it.  You  saw  that  in 
her  eyes.  So  she  was  unable  to  be  silent  about  that  passing  in- 
sight as  she  left  The  Jessamines. 

"  They  are  a  rather  quarrelsome  pair  of  turtledoves,"  said 
Mrs.  Carteret,  equably.  "  That's  their  way.  But  they  always 
make  it  up.  I  am  never  uneasy  about  lovers  that  kiss  and  make 
friends.  If  they  do  it  once,  they  may  do  it  a  hundred  times. 
.  .  .  New  potatoes — yes !  They  are  the  first  this  year.  I 
always  welcome  the  new  potatoes." 

"  i  only  meant  that  sort  of  thing,"  said  Nancy.  "  The  lovers, 
not  the  potatoes.  They  will  pass  their  lives  quarrelling  and 
making  it  up  again.  Everyone  to  his  taste — or  hers  if  she's  a 
her.     It  would  bore  me  to  death." 

"  You  are  quite  unlike  your  sister.  Only  I'm  not  sure  that  I 
know  her  well  enough  to  say  so.  It's  an  odd  ignorance  to 
confess  to,  as  she's  to  be  my  daughter-in-law.  I  shall  know  her 
in  time — perhaps." 

Nancy  laughed.  "  That  sounds  so  funny,"  said  she.  "  She 
seems  to  me  easy  enough!  She's  just — she's  just  Cintrn. 
Nothing  else !  " 

"  Why,  of  course !  Just  what  she  was  in  the  nursery.  People 
are,  to  their  sisters.  It's  extraordinary  how  usual  one's  belong- 
ings are."  A  short  discussion  followed,  owing  to  the  persistent 
refusal  of  wine  by  the  bicyclist,  who,  however,  consented  in  the 
end  to  pour  a  glass  of  Zeltinger  into  twice  as  much  Apollinaris. 
"  Now  I  hope  that  will  satisfy  you,"  said  she.  "  I  can't  tell  what 
people  want  with  wine,  when  there's  water."  Which  concession 
having  been  made,  Mrs.  Carteret  went  back  to  the  previous  ques- 
tion. "  Yes — you  are  very  unlike  your  sister.  Now,  if  .  .  . 
but  I'm  afraid  you'll  be  shocked  if  I  say  what  I  was  going  to 
say." 

"  No,  I  shan't.    Say  it." 

"  Well — suppose  I  put  it  this  way !  If  it  were  you  that  was 
going  to  halve  a  house  with  a  friend  and  his  wife — you  and  your 
husband,  you  know   ..." 

"  I  thought  the  idea  was  to  split  it  into  two  houses." 

"  That  doesn't  matter — it  comes  to  the  same  thing." 

"Well?" 


148  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

"  I  phovildn't  foel  the  least  uneasy  about  .  .  .  about  its 
answering.     1  am  not  sure  that  1  don't,  with  Cintra." 

Cintra's  sister  looked  at  her  friend  in  a  candid,  puzzled  way. 
"  Why,"  said  she,  "  there  won't  be  any  housekeeping  to  fight 
about." 

"  No,  that  is  so.  That  will  be  a  great  advantage."  But  the 
iiandsome  eyes  remained  at  rest  on  that  utterly  unsuspicious  face, 
as  though  their  owner  had  left  something  unsaid;  something 
she  felt  in  doubt  of  wording  rightly. 

Nancy  caught  their  import.  "  Well,  but  what  else  is  there  to 
5ght  about?  " 

Mrs.  Carteret  seemed  to  decide  against  saying  it.  "  Very 
likely  nothing  else,"  said  she.     "  We  must  hope  so." 

But  to  ask  this  young  woman  to  relinquish  a  doubt  unsolved 
was  like  asking  an  arrow  to  stop  and  talk.  "  No,  but  what  did 
you  mean,  though  ?  "  said  she. 

Mrs.  Carteret  confessed  to  the  truth  of  what  was  left  unsaid. 
"  I  changed  my  mind  about  saying  it,"  said  she.  "  But  what  I 
meant  was  that  other  things  than  housekeeping  may  upset  har- 
mony, between  young  couples."  She  looked  straight  into  the. 
frank,  enquiring  eyes  fixed  on  hers,  to  see  the  idea  fructify.  It 
took  time — not  much — but  enough  to  wait  in. 

Then  it  dawned,  and  was  laughed  to  scorn.  "  I  see  now," 
said  Nancy.  *'  Just  like  me  not  to,  good  gracious  me ! — why, 
only  fancy !  Jealousy  like  in  Browning,  and  people  one  knows! 
Oh  no — it  isn't  Venice  nowadays.  I  wish  it  were;  it  would  be 
so  much  less  stuffv.  Fancy  a  toccata  of  Galuppi's  with  Mr. 
Snaith  in  it !  " 

"  How  you  do  despise  that  most  estimable  of  young  men !  " 

"  Oh  /  know — he's  worthy  !     But — his  nose !  " 

"  My  dear,  he  can't  help  his  nose.  But  haven't  we  wandered 
from  the  point  ?  " 

"Perhaps  we  have.  It  wasn't  his  nose.  What  was  it?"  At 
this  juncture  Lipscombe  was  allowed  to  take  away  and  put  the 
other  things  on  the  table,  and  then  she  might  go.  In  the  lull 
which  followed,  Nancy  consented  to  countenance  lemon-sponge 
and  even  Madeira  cake.  Then  she  picked  up  the  thread  of 
conversation : — "  What  was  it — the  point?  " 

"  Whether  it's  altogether  wise  for  these  two  young  couples 
to  come  to  an  anchor  so  very  close  alongside." 

Nancy  reflected.     "  I  hadn't  thought  of  it.     Perhaps  it  isn't." 

"  I  am  quite  sure  it  isn't.  Only  1  shouldn't  be  really  so  certain 
if  ...    if  my  daughter-in-law  were  more  like  her  sister." 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  149 

"Can't  alter  it  now!  Sorry  Cit's  not  so  superhuman  as  I 
am.  May  I  have  the  little  dish  of  chocolates  at  this  end  of  the 
table,  to  take  as  many  as  I  like  ?  " 

"Certainly,  dear!  Eat  them  all  up  .  ;  .  I  didn't  exactly 
mean  it  that  way.  I  meant  that  in  the  exact  position  that  will 
be  created,  if  these  geese  go  and  live  at  the  Old  Madhouse,  Cintra 
may  not  suit  the  situation." 

"Cintra  particularly?" 

^frs.  Carteret  gave  no  direct  answer,  but  continued: — "I  only 
go  by  my  knowledge  of  Fred,  and  general  observation.  Perhaps 
a  little  special  observation  the  other  day,  when  you  were  all  here 
at  lunch." 

"  Oh  !  " 

"  Why  do  you  say  '  Oh '  in  that  .  ,  .  well — drastic  sort  of 
way  ?  " 

"  Did  I?     T  suppose  I  did.     But  it  was  because  of  something." 

"  Naturally.     Because  of  what?  " 

The  story  has  seen  that  Nancy  had  no  idea  of  reserves  or 
secrets.  So  it  does  not  wonder  at  her  answer.  "  Because  Cit 
was  so  ...  so  nasty  about  that  beautiful  Miss  What's-her- 
name,  that's  to  be  Mrs.  Nosey — Lucy  Hinchliffe.  Don't  you 
think  her  ducky  ?  " 

"Beauty  apart — or  no?" 

"  Both  ways.     Any  way.     Do  say  you  love  her !  " 

"How  if  1  don't?"     She  laughed  out  at  Nancy's  enthusiasm 
"  You  are  the  most  susceptible   .    .    .   youth,  Nancy  dear!  "  said 
she. 

"  Well — why  shouldn't  I  be  ?  Why  are  the  boys  to  have  it  all 
to  themselves?     Anyhow,  I  thought  her  absolutely  lovely." 

"  So  did  my  son,  I  think."  She  spoke  drily,  or  was  it  only 
fatigue?  Nancy's  eyes,  frankly  fixed  on  her,  asked  which,  as 
plainly  as  words.  She  answered  the  implied  question : — "  Yes 
— I  meant  that  I  thought  he  was   .    .    .   impressionne." 

"Why  shouldn't  he  be?" 

"  No  reason  in  life.  At  least,  as  long  as  your  sister  doesn't 
misunderstand  him.  That's  all  I  meant  to  say.  Fred  is  like 
that.  Only  it  means  nothing.  Shan't  we  go  upstairs?  It's 
comfortabler.  Lipscombe  will  bring  coffee  up."  Lunch  had 
died  away. 

All  the  way  upstairs — and  from  the  breakfast-room  it  was 
quite  a  climb  to  the  drawing-room — Nancy  was  silently  thought- 
ful, and  seemed  to  be  embarrassed  by  a  nascent  idea.  It  had 
become  clear  enough  to  talk  about  by  the  time  Lipscombe  had 


150  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

adhibited  the  coffee,  and  withdrawn.  "  I  see  what  you  meant," 
she  said.  "  I'm  not  sure  that  the  idea  hadn't  crossed  my  own 
mind  and  gone  out  on  the  other  side.  Only  I  had  nothing  tO' 
go  upon,  you  know !  "  Then  instinctive  veracity  prompted  a 
correction : — "  Except  perhaps  Cintra  flying  into  such  an  awful 
rage  about  Miss  Hinchliffe  when  we  were  riding  home." 

"  What  did  she  say  about  her  ?  You  can  tell  me  safely.  I 
shall  not  repeat  it." 

"  Called  her  an  odious  girl,  I  think.  .  .  .  Yes,  I'm  sure  of 
that.  Then  that  she  was  a  commonplace  type,  and  an  insipid 
chit.     I  call  that  flying  into  an  awful  rage." 

"  Call  it  legitimate  indignation,  a  little  overdone !  Did  she 
say  anything  else  ?  " 

Nancy  reflected.  "  Said  it  was  easy  for  me,  but  I  shouldn't 
have  to  live  in  the  same  house.  .  .  .  Oh  yes — she  called  her  an 
artificial  minx." 

"  I  see,  at  least  I  think  I  do.  But  I  may  be  mistaken.  We 
shall  see  how  it  works  out.  There  is  some  chance — some  chance, 
not  much— of  this  beautiful  Lucy  girl  taking  a  dislike  to  the 
house  when  she  sees  it.  There  was  something — Fred  told  me — 
about  their  going  down  to-day  to  look  at  it." 

"  Have  you  seen  any  more  of  her  ? — seen  her  again  since 
then  ?  " 

"  She  called,  with  her  mother.  A  prodigious  lady,  who  flashed 
with  rings,  and  diffused  a  scent." 

"  What  sort  of  scent  ? — patchouli  ?  " 

"  Oh  no — a  much  nicer  scent.  It  made  mo  think  of  Nepaul, 
but  I  don't  know  why.     I've  never  been  there." 

"  I  know  what  Nepaul  smells  like.  The  inside  of  old  boxes 
— cedar  wood,  that  sort  of  thing !  But  of  course  I've  never  been 
there,  either." 

"  Well — she  was  like  that.  You  know  the  sort.  They  were 
very  civil.  ...  I  feel  it's  ungracious  not  to  say  kind  and  sym- 
pathetic. Perhaps  I  ought  to?  Only  I  was  a  little  surprised 
that  they  should  know  so  much  about  this  ..."  She  flinched 
off  giving  it  a  name. 

"  I  know,"  said  Nancy.  "  Dr.  Carteret.  But  I  see  why. 
Fred  keeps  nothing  from  Mr.  Snaith,  and  Mr.  Snaith  tells  her 
everything." 

Mrs.  Carteret  thought  a  little  over  this,  and  then  said : — "  I 
suppose  it  doesn't  matter  very  much.  It  will  be  in  all  the 
newspapers  very  soon."  She  of  course  knew  nothing  of  the 
paragraph  in  the  Daily  Telegraph  of  two  days  since,  and  her 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  151 

anticipation  referred  to  the  police  advertisement,  which  she  knew 
was  imminent. 

Nancy  harked  back  suddenly,  more  suo,  to  a  previous  point  in 
the  conversation,  wliich  had  weighed  on  her  mind.  "  Why  did 
you  say  legitimate  indignation?  "  said  she. 

"  Because  I  might  have  felt  exactly  as  your  sister  felt,  in  the 
same  position." 

"  You  wouldn't  have  said  insipid  chit  and  artificial  minx." 

"  I  don't  know.  1  should  have  felt  hurt,  certainly.  A  young 
lady  in  love  cannot  be  philosophical  always."  She  paused,  con- 
sidered, and  added : — "  I'm  not  sure  that  it  wasn't  a  little  my 
fault." 

"  How  could  that  be  ?  " 

"  I  mean  for  letting  you  rush  away  like  that.  Fred  and  Cit 
should  have  had  half  an  hour  alone  together  to  work  it  off — 
to  snap  and  snarl  for  twenty  minutes,  and  bill  and  coo  for  ten, 
and  then  it  would  have  been  all  right.  Only,  to  tell  the  truth,  I 
was  longing  to  get  rid  of  you,  to  talk  to  Fred  about  what  he 
had  just  heard.   ..." 

"  I  know.  I  expect  that  was  why  he  let  us  go  so  easily.  But 
it  was  really  her  fault,  for  being  such  a  fool  about  riding  in  the 
dark.  As  if  it  mattered.  I  mean  to  stop  here  ever  so  late — if 
you'll  have  me   ..." 

"  Of  course  I'll  have  you." 

"...  And  ride  home  in  the  pitch-dark,  in  the  middle  of 
the  night.  I  think  it's  fun,  because  the  traffic's  gone  to  bed,  and 
you  can  scorch  to  your  heart's  content." 

"  Cintra's  frightened  ?  " 

"Well — she  is.'  And  that's  the  truth."  Then  Nancv's  ruling 
passion  of  veracity  got  the  better  of  her.  "  I  shouldn't  pay  any 
attention  to  her  nonsense,  only  for  papa.  He  fusses.  Says  I 
may  break  my  own  neck  if  I  like,  but  not  my  sister's.  All 
Scientific  men  are  nervous." 

"Is  that  the  case?"  And  indeed  it  did  seem  too  broad  a 
generalisation. 

Nancy  got  back  to  her  base.  "  Anyhow,  I  must  pay  attention 
to  papa;  he's  such  a  dear  good  old  fussy-wussy.  Him  and  his 
messes !  "  This  was  not  an  expression  of  contempt  for  Eesearch, 
so  much  as  of  affectionate  leniency  to  a  human  parent's  weak- 
nesses. 

Mrs.  Carteret  transposed  the  key  without  apology.  "  You 
don't  .  .  .  get  on  .  .  .  with  your  stepmother,"  she  said,  feel- 
ing her  way  through  the  question. 


152  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

Nancy  wrinkled  up  her  eyes  slightly,  to  express  caution  against 
over-statement,  and  Justice.  "  I  don't  think  one  ought  to  say 
quite  that,"  she  said. 

"  How  far  are  you  inclined  to  go  ?  "  Nancy  thought  she  saw 
amusement  in  the  beautiful  eyes  that  were  fixed  on  her,  but  no 
smile  endorsed  it  on  the  lips.  It  was  the  weight  of  the  sad  time, 
dictating  obedience. 

She  answered  the  question.  "  We  don't  spit  fire  at  one  an- 
other— not  now.  I  should  say  we  were  friendly.  A  sort  of  per- 
petual truce." 

"Is  that  all?" 

"  I  can't  do  any  better  than  that.  However,  /  shan't  quarrel 
with  her,  because  of  Conrad.  At  least,  not  so  long  as  he  keeps 
kissable.     They  go  off,  you  know." 

"  I  know.  But  I  thought  he  was  such  a  troublesome 
child." 

"  So  he  is.  He  is  simply  as  bad  as  ever  he  can  possibly  be. 
He's  detestably  overbearing  and  argumentative,  and  greedy  be- 
yond belief.  But  the  back  of  his  neck's  delicious."  The  young 
lady's  face  as  she  said  this  might  have  been — but  for  organic 
differences — that  of  a  well-disposed  vulture,  happy  at  the  thought 
of  entrails. 

Her  hostess  seemed  to  find  these  domestic  particulars  a  pleas- 
ant distraction,  to  judge  by  her  amused  face.  "  Have  you  set- 
tled what  to  call  your  stepmother?  "  she  asked. 

"  Well — no — we  haven't !  It's  a  fix.  '  Mamma  '  of  course 
continues  out  of  the  question.  And  we  can't  possibly  call  her 
'  Steppy  V/eppy  '  to  her  face." 

"  Do  I  know  her  name  ?     I  think  not." 

"Her  Christian  name?  Felicia.  She  was  called  after  Mrs. 
Hemans.  So  her  American  Miss  Nicholls,  who's  a  dairvoyante, 
wants  her  to  turn  Reincarnationist,  because  then  she'll  be  able 
to  believe  she  was  Mrs.  Hemans  and  her  great-aunt  Mary  was 
Mary  Queen  of  Scots." 

"  I  thought  ^Irs.  Hemans  hadn't  been  long  enough  dead." 

"What  for?  Oh — for  anyone  else  to  be  her!  I  don't  think 
there's  any  rule.  You  have  to  be  born  after  the  person  dies, 
that's  all.  Mrs.  Hemans  was  quite  dead,  anyhow.  Of  course 
it  wouldn't  do  if  they  overlapped.  By-the-by  now,  how  odd  that 
I've  never  thought  of  that!  Was  Mary  Queen  of  Scots  Mrs. 
Hemans's  great-aunt?" 

"Not  that  I  know  of.     Why?" 
To  make  it  fit — don't  you  see?     Steppy   Weppy  was  her 


(<  rp 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  153 

great-aunt  Mary's  great-niece,  so  Mrs.  Hemans  ought  to  hare 
been  Mary  Queen  of  Scots.     To  make  a  job  of  it." 

Mrs.  Carteret  went  as  near  a  smile  as  the  shadow  on  her 
mind  permitted ;  more  at  lier  young  friend's  serene  unconscious- 
ness of  anything  unusual  in  her  speech,  than  at  the  substance  of 
it.  "■  Mary  Queen  of  Scots,"  said  she,  "  seems  to  be  rather  a 
popvdar  sort  of  person  to  have  been.  I  once  knew  two  Reincar- 
nationist  ladies  who  had  both  been  Mary  Queen  of  Scots." 

"  Didn't  they  fight?  " 

"  In  the  end,  yes.  One  of  them  asked  the  other  to  come  and 
meet  her — the  asker's — former  husband,  and  when  she  came, 
introduced  a  gentleman  who  had  been  Darnley.  Or  Bothwell — I 
forget  which.     That  parted  them,  I  believe." 

They  chatted  on,  thus  or  otherwise,  till  the  Sunday  afternoon 
had  worn  itself  out,  and  was  of  the  mind  to  become  a  Sunday 
evening.  It  was  a  chat  with  a  drawback — the  exclusion  from  it 
of  a  topic.  Could  any  talk  be  other  than  a  makeshift,  with  the 
consciousness  of  its  dark  background,  ever  present  to  the  girl's 
eyes  in  the  fixed  sadness  of  the  older  woman's  face  ?  It  had  been 
easy  for  Nancy  to  tell  herself,  as  she  spun  at  fifteen  miles  an 
hour  over  Streatham  Common,  that  she  had  only  just  set  eyes 
on  old  Dr.  Carteret,  and  therefore  his  disappearance,  to  her,  was 
like  a  thing  in  a  newspaper,  matter  for  the  tearless  lamentation 
due  to  perfect  strangers  in  trouble.  But  here  by  the  fireside,  in 
the  very  presence  of  another's  sorrow,  and  that  other  the  object 
of  one  of  those  impulsive  outbursts  of  affection  to  which  she  was 
subject,  that  sorrow  became  her  own.  She  wished  that  her  friend 
had  not  headed  her  off  the  tragedy  at  the  outset,  leaving  her 
bound  in  honour  to  be  silent.     Not  that  she  could  do  any  good. 

However,  a  continued  silence  about  it  was  not  in  the  nature 
of  things,  and  Nancy's  uneasy  sense  of  their  mutual  conscious- 
ness was  destined  to  end  very  shortly.  Nothing  unlocks  speech 
like  tea,  or  even  a  sound  prospect  of  it.  And  the  advent  of 
Lipscombe  as  its  harbinger — a  benevolent  Angel  bearing  a  white 
damask  flag  of  universal  truce — had  cut  across  the  topic  of  the 
moment,  and  left  a  blank  space  for  whichever  of  them  chose  to 
embark  upon  a  new  one.  The  tea,  made  but  not  poured,  must 
have  been  impatient  for  its  destiny  by  the  time  its  maker  broke 
upon  the  stillness  quite  suddenly,  to  say  to  her  young  friend: — 
"  You  know  what  I  think  it  was.  He  was  killed,  and  we  may 
never  know  how.  Until  we  know,  we  cannot  call  it  ..."  She 
stopped  abruptly,  and  then  continued: — "But  one  shudders  to 
speak  the  word.     I  won't  if  you  don't  like." 


154  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

Nancy  answered: — "I  know  what  you  mean.  But  why  not? 
What  do  we  gain  by  not  calling  it  .  .  ."  But  she  flinched 
from  the  word  itself. 

Mrs.  Carteret  supplied  it  quietly.    "  By  not  calling  it  murder." 

"  If  it  is  .  .  . "  Nancy  began.  But  again  she  fought  shy  of 
those  two  ugly  syllables. 

"  If  it  is  murder?  "  said  Mrs.  Carteret  as  before,  with  the  same 
absolute  self-command.  "  I  am  convinced  of  it.  But  I  should 
be  hard  put  to  it  if  I  had  to  give  reasons  that  would  convince 
anyone  else.  I  believe  my  reasons  are  no  reasons.  But  I  am 
convinced  of  it."  Her  hand  was  cold  and  shook,  though  her 
voice  was  so  calm  and  self-possessed.  Nancy  knew  this,  for  she 
had  left  her  seat  to  stand  nearer  the  fire,  and  now  she  went  over 
to  her  friend  and  kissed  her,  being  at  a  loss  what  to  say.  She 
sat  on  a  stool  at  her  feet,  and  held  her  hand  so  that  she  knew 
that  she  was  cold. 

"  Why  should  you  be  so  convinced? "  said  she.  "  Where 
— when — how  could  it  have  been?  He  must  have  been 
found   ..." 

"  Does  it  follow  ?  They  say  they  have  searched.  But  what 
is  their  searching  worth?  When  Fred  asked  the  Inspector  if  all 
the  ponds  along  the  line  had  been  dredged,  what  was  the  answer  ? 
There  were  no  ponds !  I  know  one — a  big  one.  Out  near  Farn- 
ham,  I  think  it  is." 

"  I  remember.     But  is  it  deep  enough  ?  " 

"  It  may  be,  or  it  may  not.  I  know  nothing  about  the  pond. 
Only  it  shows  what  their  search  is  worth,  that  they  have  not 
dredged  it.  It  is  on  the  line,  and  one  stone  unturned  takes  the 
edge  off  the  whole.     But  that  is  not  quite   ..." 

Nancy  waited,  and  then  said: — "Not  quite  what?" 

"  Not  quite  what  I  wanted  to  say.  If  I  say  it,  you  will  think 
me  superstitious — whatever  that  means." 

"  Shall  I  ?     I  don't  believe  I  shall." 

"  Yes,  you  will.  I  should  think  myself  so,  only  I  believe 
there  are  ways — reasonable  ones — of  accounting  for  dreams  and 
second-sight  .  .  .  and  all  that  sort  of  thing."  Mrs.  Carteret 
was  one  of  those  who  want  to  run  with  the  hare  and  hunt  with 
the  hounds;  to  scoff  at  bodies  like  ourselves  for  being  supersti- 
tious, but  to  call  in  Natural  Law  to  protect  their  own  phe- 
nomena.    For  there  is  never  a  soul  but  keeps  one,  somewhere. 

Said  Nancy,  curiosity  all  aflame : — "  It  icas  a  dream  or  a 
second-sight,  then?    You  will  tell  it  me,  won't  you?" 

"  I  don't  at  all  mind  telling  you,  because  I  think  the  thing 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  155 

-can  be  accounted  for  quite  reasonably,  without  bringing  in  any 
nonsense.  ...  I  must  pour  the  tea,  or  it  will  get  cold.  I'm 
sure  your  father  talks  about  molecules." 

"  Well — he  does.  And  I  always  hope  he  understands  what  he's 
talking  about.     But  do  go  on.     Come  to  the  second-sight !  " 

"  I  will  directly.  .  .  .  Here's  your  tea.  .  .  ,  Has  he  told 
you  that  every  molecule  in  the  Universe  has  an  attraction  for 
every  other  molecule  ?  " 

"  I  think  he  has  mentioned  it,  and  I  suppose  he  knows.  Only 
there  are  sucli  a  lot  of  them." 

"  I  believe  it  is  a  Scientific  fact.  However,  I'll  toll  you  the 
second-sight  if  you  like,  and  leave  the  molecule  alone." 

"  Go  on  your  own  way,  and  I'll  listen." 

"  Well — I  thought  it  showed  ...  a  sort  of  Compliance  with 
Natural  Law.  But  I'll  tell  you.  It  was  on  the  same  day — at 
least,  that  night.  I  mean  the  night  before  you  both  came  to 
lunch,  three  weeks  ago.  It  was  like  this.  I  woke  in  the  middle 
of  the  night  with  a  start,  and  the  room  was  light.  It  didn't 
last  long,  but  long  enough  for  me  to  see   ..." 

"See  what?"  Nancy  asked  this  because  the  narrative 
paused. 

"  See  a  figure  kneeling.  Exactlv  like  him!  With  the  hands 
up." 

"  With  the  hands  up  ?  "     Nancy  did  not  quite  see  how. 

"  Yes.  I  did  not  understand  it  then.  I  saw  afterwards.  The 
hands  were  up  .  .  . " — it  cost  her  an  effort  to  go  on — "  to  ward 
off  a  blow,  and  the  head  was  down." 

Nancy  shuddered.  "  W^iat  did  you  do?  Were  you  not  terri- 
fied ?  "  she  said. 

"  Not  in  the  least.  Dreams  often  hold  on  after  one  wakes, 
long  enough  to  count  a  dozen.  I  just  went  to  sleep  again,  as 
soon  as  I  could.     Remember,  that  then  we  knew  nothing." 

"  I  should  have  been  frightened.   .    .    .   Well — upset,  then." 

"  No,  you  wouldn't.  I  went  to  sleep  again,  and  thought  noth- 
ing of  it.  Then  when  I  woke  by  daylight,  I  saw  it  again — a 
dark  silhouette  in  the  same  place,  exactly." 

"  And  did  not  that  upset  you  ?  " 

"  No — the  other  way  round,  if  anything.  It  showed  that  it 
was  me — in  myself,  I  mean.  For  it  died  away  into  the  wall  be- 
hind it.  And  then  I  saw  that  it  was  the  pattern  I  had  been 
looking  at;  a  bit  the  same  shape  as  the  figure,  that  my  eye  had 
picked  out.     Did  you  never  have  that  happen  to  you?  " 

"  I  can't  say  I  ever  did." 


156  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

"  That's  odd.  It  docs,  to  me.  I  thought  nothing  of  it,  and 
indeed  forgot  all  about  it." 

''  Why  shouldn't  you  ?  He  was  all  right  then,  so  far  as  you 
knew  ?  " 

"  Of  course  he  was.  But  I  remembered  it  later,  when  we  came 
to  know.  And  1  am  conrinced  that — that  1  saw  what  had  ac- 
tually happened,  and  that  it  will  prove  so." 

Discussion  followed,  the  older  lady  pointing  out  the  possible 
analogy  of  an  experience  of  this  sort  to  the  connection  between 
molecule  and  molecule  at  infinite  distances  apart.  If  mere  mole- 
cules could  act  sympathetically  under  such  a  drawback,  surely 
our  more  delicate  organisations  would  show  a  sensitiveness  at 
such  a  very  short  distance.  Nothing,  she  said,  would  shake  her 
belief  in  this  dream  or  vision,  except  the  reappearance  of  her 
brother-in-law  in- the  flesh,  alive  and  well.  She  seemed,  however, 
always  anxious  to  be  rational,  and  to  bring  it  into  conformity 
with  some  received  opinion,  no  matter  what. 

Nancy,  on  the  other  hand,  although  the  daughter  of  a  Pro- 
fessor of  Applied  Science,  seemed  to  think  we  had  better  be 
honestly  superstitious,  or  discredit  evidence  altogether.  "  Only 
I  do  tliink,  dear  Mrs.  Carteret,  that  your  brother-in-law  might 
walk  into  the  house  at  any  moment — or  more  likely  into  the 
school, — and  the  whole  thing  be  explained.  But  what  a  parcel 
of  fools  he  would  think  us,  for  getting  in  such  a  stew  about 
him !  "  Mrs.  Carteret  said : — "  No  one  would  be  so  glad  to  be 
thought  a  fool  as  I.  But  it  won't  be  that  way,  Nancy  dear. 
You  will  see  that  I  am  right.  That  is  too  nice  a  thing  to 
happen  in  a  world  like  ours." 


CHAPTER  XI 

Man,  according  to  the  ratiocinations  specious  of  Aristotle  or 
Smiglesius,  is  a  thing  endowed  with  reason.  This  story  hopes 
that  the  ratiocinations  of  those  philosophers  are  at  least  specious 
in  their  answers — if  any — to  the  question  why  Man  accepts  the 
disappearance  of  his  fellow-man  into  the  absolutely  unknown 
with  greater  complacency  than  a  suspension  of  his  visible  audible 
and  tangible  presence,  which  may  be  only  temporary,  within  the 
presumed  limits  of  known  existence.  Do  they  consider  it  an 
evidence  of  his  rational  endowment  that  he  looks  on  his  own 
absolute  ignorance  of  what  and  where  the  thing  is  that  his 
deceased  neighbour  once  called  ego,  as  a  distinctly  better  position 
than  uncertainty  of  what  has  become  of  the  only  evidence  he  has 
ever  had  of  that  ego's  existence?  The  story  does,  and  further  is 
grateful  for  the  knowledge  that  his  dead  neighbour,  wherever  he 
has  gone,  has  loft  behind  him  the  thing  he  used  to  suffer  with. 
He  has  shuffled  off  his  mortal  coil.  Was  the  author  of  the 
Christmas  mummers  plav  inspired,  when  he  invented  '•'  Little 
Devil  Doubt  "  ? 

It  is  one  of  the  crudest  things,  in  disappearance  without 
warrant  of  death,  that  Grief  must,  as  it  were,  hold  her  hand. 
Tears  may  long  to  come,  but  dare  not.  Lamentation  can  find  no 
word  that  may  not  have  to  be  unsaid,  and  the  evil  chance  grudges 
the  survivor  the  poor  consolation  of  eulogisms  on  the  vanished 
man — the  man  who  may  not  have  departed.  Which  of  us  hag 
not  felt  glad  at  heart  that  the  assurance  of  death  has  gagged, 
the  tongue  that  would  speak  ill  of  some  very  human  friend,  and 
has  left  us  free  to  magnify  such  redeeming  features  as  our 
imagination  can  assign  to  him?  Devise,  if  you  can,  an  attitude 
for  his  mind  who  knows  not  if  his  friend  be  dead  or  living. 
The  epita})h's  license  of  praise  is  not  allowed  him;  and  yet,  until 
he  knows,  he  has  to  provide  oblivion  for  shortcomings  that  may 
reappear  with  their  proprietor,  till  there  is  a  guarantee  that  he 
is  safe  on  the  other  side  of  the  Styx.  Poor  Tom  or  Bob  or  Jim, 
who  drank,  goes  God-knows-whcre,  and  the  haunts  of  men — of 
you  and  me,  that  is — know  his  incoherencies  no  more.  Is  it 
safe,  yet-awhile,  to  pretend  that  Tom — or  Bob,  or  Jim — was 
sobriety  itself,  when  he  may  come  back  drunk  at  anv  moment^ 

157  \^ 


158  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

to  throw  doubt  upon  the  well-meant  fib?  You  would  welcome 
him  drunk — true  enough.  But  how  about  your  own  well-pre- 
served charatcer  for  veracity? 

But  then  in  such  a  case  as  Tom's — or  Bob's  or  Jim's — there  is 

compensation,  say  what  we  may.     We  shall  never  again  have  to 

send  for  a  cab  to  take  him  safe  home,  after  a  noisy  postscript  at 

\)ur  table  to  the  expansive  geniality — no  more — that  he  brought 

with  him,  perhans  from  the  nearest  pothouse.      We  shall  never 

%ave  to  practise  legerdemain  again,  to  keep  the  bottle  from  him 

'■^t  that  table,  and  to  acknowledge  ourselves  beaten.      We  shall 

%ever  have  to  pretend  that  he  is  sober,  terribly  handicapped  by 

%is  endeavours  to  help  our  pretext;  praying  any  unseen  agency 

^hat  is  well-disposed  towards  us  to  make  him  hold  his  tongue. 

^es — there  is  a  good  side  to  his  disappearance,  if  we  can  only 

%e  guaranteed  against  his  resurrection;  and  we  may  feel  happy 

%bout  it  to  the  extent  of  not  fretting.     Or,  if  we  think  that  that 

Inuch  selfishness  will  lower  us  in  our  own  good  opinion,  we  may 

perceive  how  great  an  anxiety  he  was  to  his  poor  wife ;  and,  if 

the  guarantee  is  a  strong  one,  go  to  the  length  of  hoping  that 

Mrs.  Tom  or  Bob  or  Jim  will  get  over  his  loss,  and  marry  again, 

■and  do  better  next  time,  and  all  that  sort  of  thing.     Because 

that  is  consistent  with  altruism. 

But  this  did  not  hold  good  of  Mrs.  Carteret's  grief.  The 
sting  to  her  lay  in.  the  dumb  uncertainty  of  what  was  coming. 
■■Her  curious  confidence  that  her  brother-in-law  lay  murdered 
•somehow,  somewhere,  may  have  driven  all  other  speculations  out 
of  her  mind,  but  the  dire  revelation  of  the  manner  of  his  death 
was  still  to  come.  Wliat  could  she  look  forward  to  till  it 
"should  come,  but  a  terrible  silence  of  the  mind,  a  stupid  hunger 
to  know  more,  with  a  gruesome  fear  of  the  form  that  it  might 
take?  This,  and  a  misgiving  at  times  that  she  had  no  right 
to  trust  her  own  conviction,  kept  her  whole  soul  on  the  strain, 
and  while  she  longed  for  sympathy,  she  felt  she  had  no  claim 
to  throw  the  full  shadow  of  her  apprehension  over  a  young  mind 
like  Nancy's.  Yet  she  had  not  been  able  to  resist  the  tempta- 
tion to  declare  her  belief  that  the  thing  was  murder,  and  to  talk 
of  the  odd  dream  incident  that  was  its  cause;  or,  but  for  the  fact 
that  it  happened  before  it  was  known  that  Dr.  Carteret  had  never 
reached  his  destination,  might  have  been  its  result. 

The  •s'fOry  sees,  in  this  reluctance  of  Mrs.  Carteret  to  show  the 
-full  depth  of  her  depression,  how  she  came  to  be  able  to  theorise 
.about  the  sympathies  of  distant  molecules  and  so  forth.     It  was 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  159 

not  merely  a  wish  on  her  part  to  disclaim  superstition ;  it  was  to 
suggest  that  behind  her  personal  conviction  of  the  disaster  was  a 
readiness  to  admit  the  possibility,  at  least,  of  her  brother-in-law's 
reappearance  alive  and  well.  So  when  she  said  that  was  too  nice 
a  thing  to  happen  in  a  world  like  ours,  she  meant  Nancy  to 
understand  that  her  disheartenment  was  short  of  despair.  The 
girl  accepted  her  words  in  that  sense,  but  was  quite  alive  to  the 
misery  and  tension  of  the  prolonged  doubt,  which  to  her  thinking 
was  as  bad  as  the  worser  certainty. 

Nancy  tried  her  best,  by  advancing  possible  improbabilities 
that  would  cover  the  mystery,  to  undermine  that  verdict  of 
murder  against  some  person  unknown;  but  without  success. 
Perhaps,  had  any  of  her  theories  been  more  ingenious  than  that 
one  about  the  disused  Cornish  mine,  she  might  have  scored. 
But  as  a  matter  of  fact  it  was  far  and  away  the  best  of  them. 

That  wild  hypothesis  of  Fred's  briefly  referred  to  by  him  in 
his  letter  to  her  sister,  had  of  course  been  passed  on  to  Nancy, 
with  whatever  seemed  wanting  to  its  completeness  supplied  by 
the  narrator.  Could  she  dare,  in  view  of  the  seeming  establish- 
ment of  a  confidence  already  near  high-water  mark,  to  ask  her 
friend  if  that  tale  had  any  foundation?  Why,  no — not  if  there 
was  to  be  any  tact  or  caution  in  the  asking;  that  was  not  her 
line.  She  could  keep  off  people's  corns  altogether,  but  she  could 
not  go  over  them  on  tiptoe. 

Need  this  be  a  corn  at  all  ?  Nancy  answered  this  in  the  nega- 
tive, before  saying,  without  reserve : — "  Is  there  anything  in  that 
story  of  Fred's,  about  Dr.  Carteret's  early  love-affair,  that  might 
have  had  something  to  do  with  it?     Or  is  it  only  romance?" 

Mrs.  Carteret  said : — "  I  never  gave  the  boy  leave  to  publish 
that  I" 

Nancy  said : — "  Cit  told  me.     Do  I  matter  ?  " 

"  No — my  dear !  You  don't  matter.  .  .  .  But,  however ! — 
I  suppose  I  must  learn  to  be  more  discreet  now  I  have  a  son 
engaged.  I  never  had  one  before.  I  might  have  known  he 
would  repeat  everything  to  your  sister.  He  lost  no  time,  I  must 
say."  She  was  not  displeased — so  Nancy  thought — that  so  un- 
reserved a  confidence  should  exist  in  that  quarter.  It  sounded 
real. 

"  I  didn't  see  the  letter  it  was  in,  and  that  was  all  she  told 
me — that  he  thought  the  two  things  might  have  some  connec- 
tion. ..."  Nancy  wanted  to  explain  something  in  three 
words,  and  became  a  little  complex.  "  I  didn't  know  it  wasn't 
a  thing  he  hadn't  always  known,"  said  she. 


160  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 


C( 


Oh  no — I  had  just  told  him.  He  knew  nothing  about  it. 
It  was  before  he  was  born  or  thought  of — when  I  was  a  little 
girl.  I  don't  the  least  mind  telling  you."  She  then  repeated 
all  she  had  told  Fred,  in  nearly  the  same  words. 

"■  Why  did  Fred  think  that  would  throw  light  on  this   ..." 

"  On  this  business?  It  won't.  He  got  some  crazy  idea  that 
this  lady — I  never  knew  who  she  was;  my  mother  would  never 
tell  me — had  come  on  the  tapis  again;  as  a  widow,  I  suppose.  If 
she  had  lost  her  husband  lately,  of  course  the  thing  would  not 
have  been  out  of  the  question ;  though  even  then  I  don't  know 
why  it  should  have  worked  out  this  way.    ..." 

"  No — why  there  should  be  any  mysteries  and  secrecies.  It 
seems  so  needless." 

"  Absolutely.  It  would  have  been  all  the  other  way.  Fancy 
the  effect  on  the  school !  Fancy  a  headmaster  wlio  neglected 
his  school  without  notice,  to  negotiate  a  secret  wedding!  Such 
an  uncalled-for  escapade  !  "' 

"  I  should  have  taken  my  boy  away,  and  sent  him  to  another 
school."  This  imaginary  family  would  have  provoked  a  smile 
at  any  other  time. 

Mrs.  Carteret  went  back  a  few  bars.  ''  But  she  had  not  lost 
her  husband  lately.  For  my  mother  told  me  this  much  about 
her,  that  she  was  a  widow,  years  ago.  Why — my  mother  has 
been  dead  seven  years !  And  it  was  a  long  time  before  her 
death,  because  she  certainly  was  not  completely  paralysed  when 
she  told  me." 

'*'  Five  years — suppose  ?  " 

"•'  More  than  that.  Indeed,  I  fancy  it  was  not  far  short  of  the 
time  my  dear  husband  died.  But  I  couldn't  say  for  certain. 
Anyhow,  one  can  only  make  it  possible  by  supposing  she  had 
just  lost  a  second  husband.     Does  it  seem  likely  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know.  I  can't  say  it  seems  to  make  so  very  much 
difference — to  me." 

"  Well,  perhaps  not."  Mrs.  Carteret  seemed  to  assent  be- 
cause she  was  thinking  of  something  else.  It  could  not  be  in 
the  fire,  still  welcome  in  the  evening,  in  May's  early  snap  of 
cold ;  although  a  coal,  that  volleyed  out  a  tar-blaze  by  fits  and 
starts,  was  doing  its  best  to  attract  attention.  No — her  mind 
was  trying  back  for  dropped  fragments  of  the  past.  At  last  it 
came,  as  though  she  roused  herself  to  speak.  "  I  was  trying  to 
recall  exactly  what  my  mother  said.  But  the  time  makes  it  so 
difficult.  I  do  remember  this,  though — that  when  she  told  me  the 
lady  was  a   widow,    I   naturally  suggested  that  they  might  be 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  161 

brought  together  again.  She  became  very  emphatic,  saying  sev- 
eral times  over : — '  It  would  be  impossible — impossible — impos- 
sible!' I  can  remember  the  difficulty  she  had  in  saying  it, 
because  the  stroke  had  affected  her  speech.  I  can't  be  sure  about 
what  else  she  said.  But  I  did  catch  some  of  itj  certainly." 
Nancy  held  her  tongue  and  waited,  feeling  she  had  no  claim  to 
know  more,  until  Mrs.  Carteret  spoke  again,  almost  as  in  response 
to  her  thought.  "  Well — it  scrunded  like  '  It  would  have  been  all 
right  before  her  marriage,'  which  seemed  nonsense.  It  does, 
doesn't  it?  .  .  .  What's  that?"  For  the  girl  had  started,  and 
the  start  had  been  felt  by  the  hand  that  held  hers.  Mrs.  Car- 
teret took  a  cause  for  granted.  "  These  coals  are  nothing  but 
slate,"  said  she.     "  They  spit  horribly  !  " 

"  It  wasn't  a  coal,"  said  Nancy.  "  Only  an  idea  in  my  head." 
But  she  didn't  say  what  it  was,  except  that  it  was  nothing.  Mrs. 
Carteret  did  not  press  for  it,  only  looked  in  an  affectionate 
amused  way  at  the  heightened  colour  and  animated  eyes  this 
"  nothing  "  had  had  the  power  to  produce.  Possibly  a  pull  at 
the  visitor's  bell  below  was  responsible  for  this,  as  an  incursion 
seemed  imminent. 

The  little  dachshund,  who  had  passed  a  profitable  afternoon 
inside  the  fender,  asleep  with  the  cat,  heard  incident  afoot  and 
came  hurriedly  to  attend  to  the  matter.  He  got  out  of  the  room 
and  downstairs  to  see  that  the  visitors  belonged  to  a  class  he 
could  sanction,  and  was — so  to  speak — heard  smelling  them 
below,  while  Lipscombe  reassured  them  by  a  report  of  the  date 
when  he  had  last  bitten  the  unoffending  Public.  They  were  the 
Bagster  Sutclift'es,  or  some  equivalent  thereof;  and  why  they 
need  come  so  late  Heaven — according  to  the  ladv  of  the  house — 
only  knew!  She  was  sorry  now  that  it  was  too  late,  that  she 
hadn't  told  Lipscombe  to  say  not  at  home.  It  certainly  was  too 
late,  for  the  Bagster  Sutclifl'es  were  upon  us. 

It  was  impossible  to  distinguish  one  from  the  other  of  them, 
and  their  plurality  was  indeterminate  of  that  account.  Nancy 
afterwards  told  her  sister  that  she  had  not  the  slightest  idea 
whether  there  were  three  or  five.  From  the  moment  of  their 
entry  they  all  spoke  at  once,  and  their  apologetic  geniality — 
which  never  wore  out  the  topic  of  the  lateness  of  their  visit — 
was  as  a  whirlwind  strong  enough  to  knock  down  ornaments, 
break  piano-candles,  and  sweep  away  antimacassars.  At  least, 
there  was  food  for  apprehension  on  this  score.  But  the  Bagster 
Sutcliffes  had  one  very  high  quality.     They  had  had  tea. 

It  was  a  visit,  not  a  riot — whatever  you  might  have  thought. 


162  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

No  Visit  Act  exists,  or  they  might  have  been  dispersed  before 
seven  o'clock.  As  it  was,  a  species  of  gush  had  to  be  maintained 
in  the  interests  of  Society,  until  quite  suddenly  it  dawned  on  all 
the  Bagster  Sutcliffes  at  once  that  it  was  time  to  go.  They 
exclaimed  simultaneously  that  they  were  paying  "  an  uncon- 
scionable long  visit."  But  they  did  not  act  on  the  discovery. 
On  the  contrary,  they  seemed  proud  of  stopping  longer  still,  and 
not  in  the  least  ashamed.  No  one  had  thrown  doubt  on  their 
statement ;  but  they  had  determined,  apparently,  to  be  on  the  safe 
side,  so  stopped  longer.  After  this  had  occurred  once  or  twice, 
a  change  seemed  to  come  over  them,  and  they  exclaimed  dis- 
jointedly  that  they  really  must  go,  and  got  up  and  sat  down 
again  at  intervals. 

Even  so — in  quite  another  connection — sea-birds  on  the  sands 
seem  to  suggest  flight  to  the  community  by  little  musical  cries, 
far  apart;  while  daring  spirits,  one  by  one,  fly  a  few  flaps  over 
their  reflections,  to  the  same  end,  the  import  of  each  short  span 
of  wingcraft  being  clearly : — '*  This  is  how  it's  done,  like  this. 
You  do  it  too,  all  of  you !  "  Then  in  the  end  all  rise  together, 
and  they  and  their  reflections  are  gone,  and  we  are  the  worse 
thereby.  After  each  Bagster  Sutcliffe  had  shown  its  kind  ten- 
tatively how  to  go,  the  whole  number  of  them  took  flight,  like 
the  birds. 

AYhereupon  Mrs.  Carteret,  so  far  from  seeming  the  worse, 
said : — "  Oh  dear ! — I  thought  those  people  were  never  going 
to  go.  What  were  we  talking  about,  dear  ?  "  But  Nancy  had 
quite  honestly  forgotten  about  the  idea  in  her  head  that  wasn't 
a  coal,  nor  could  she  have  formulated  it  afresh  at  a  moment's 
notice.  So  she  said  she  had  forgotten,  and — to  soften  off  the 
Bagster  Sutcliffes — ^^said  that  the  smallest  one  was  rather  pretty, 
and  that  the  plump  one  was  rather  silent,  and  that  the  mother 
had  an  interesting  expression.  To  which  Mrs.  Carteret  assented 
perfunctorily,  seeming  much  more  alive  to  the  fact  that  it  was 
time  to  get  ready  for  dinner. 

The  incidents  of  the  day  have  been  followed  thus  closely  to 
account  for  Mrs.  Carteret  not  having  seen  that  announcement 
in  yesterday's  Daib/  Telegraph.  The  story  knows  so  far,  that  it 
had  been  overlooked  at  Nancy's  own  home,  and  it  has  now  been 
seen  that  it  could  not  have  transpired  at  Maida  Yale  except 
through  the  Bagster  Sutcliffes,  or  Mrs.  Carteret  reading  it  in 
the  Dailjf  Telegraph.  When  a  paragraph  occurs  in  one  journal 
only  on  Saturday,  it  may,  or  may  not,  be  in  the  Sunday  papers. 
As  it  chanced,  this  paragraph  about  Dr.  Carteret's  disappearance 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  163 

was  copied  into  the  Observer.  But  Mrs.  Carteret  did  not  see  it. 
She  was  at  church  in  the  morning,  and  in  the  afternoon  pre- 
ferred talking  with  her  young  friend  to  any  newspaper.  So  the 
Observer  lay  neglected — perhaps  too  proud  to  complain.  At  any 
rate,  it  did  not. 

Now,  it  would  have  been  the  merest  affectation  in  Xancy  to 
make  any  pretence  of  preparation  for  dinner.  Her  bicycling 
dress  was  at  odds  with  ideas  of  the  sort,  and  the  absence  of  com- 
pany— for  the  Bagster  Sutcliffes  were  callers — not  company — 
warranted  its  retention.  So  soap-and-water  and  a  brush-and- 
comb  exhausted  the  subject  in  five  minutes,  and  she  was  back 
in  the  drawing-room  some  time  before  her  hostess  reappeared, 
more  completely  groomed.  Under  such  circumstances  it  is  nat- 
ural to  feel  at  a  loose  end,  and  one  usually  opens  a  book  to  make 
it  a  fast  one.  Nancy  looked  for  a  book  of  the  right  sort — her 
right  sort — one  that  you  were  not  obliged  to  begin  at  the  begin- 
ning, but  might  go  on  with  from  just  anywhere.  She  made  a 
mental  stipulation  to  that  effect  before  picking  samples  out  of 
the  expansible  slide  on  the  table,  and  found  nothing  that  com- 
plied with  it.  Then  her  eye  was  caught  by  the  uncomplaining 
Observer,  on  a  most  uncomfortable  chair  with  feet  like  Liebig 
the  dachshund's,  an  ogee  back,  and  a  siege  so  rotund  that  it  was 
a  wonder  the  Observer  hadn't  slipped  off;  a  chair  that  brought 
to  Nancy's  mind  an  acrobat  who  stood  on  the  Terrestrial  Globe, 
and  made  it  climb  the  hypothenuse  of  a  right-angled  triangle. 
She  decided  that  she  might  make  bold  to  open  that 
Observer,  seeing  that  it  wasn't  done  up  in  a  wrapper,  only 
folded. 

She  did  so,  and  the  first  words  that  caught  her  eyes  were: — 
"  Mysterious  Disappearance."  She  had  never  known  or  been 
near  anyone  who  had  been  in  a  newspaper,  and  believed  that  only 
a  particular  class — not  hers — were  allowed  that  privilege. 
Whence  the  first  effect  of  these  words  upon  her  was  to  make 
her  think  Coincidence  was  busy  on  disappearances,  and  it  was 
very  odd.  And  so  deeply  ingrained  was  her  belief,  that  the  first 
words  of  the  paragraph  only  pointed  to  the  fact  that  Coincidence 
was  going  strong.  It  was  odd  that  two  headmasters  should 
disappear  simultaneously.  But  when  it  came  to  Vexton  Stul- 
tifer  School,  a  belated  light  broke  upon  her,  and  showed  her 
the  identity  of  the  two  cases.  She  supposed  Mrs.  Carteret  knew 
all  about  the  paragraph.  She  mmt.  And  yet ! — how  about  the 
wording  of  it?  She  read  it  twice,  and  did  not  find  it  improve 
on  re-reading.     Of  course  this  sort  of  thing  might  suit  "  the 


164  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

people  in  the  Newspaper  " — her  mind  found  this  phrase  for  them 
— but  how  about  human  creatures?  Then  she  read  it  a  third 
time,  and  on  reflection  was  obliged  to  confess  that  she  did  not 
see  how  else  they  could  have  expressed  it,  with  some  slight 
exceptions.  Probably  any  newspaper  statement,  written  journal- 
wise,  always  has  the  same  appearance  to  its  subjects,  when  they 
do  not  court  publicity. 

She  concluded,  therefore,  that  she  would  make  no  critical 
comment  on  the  paragraph;  but  treat  it  as  the  usual  thing,  and 
to  be  expected  inevitably.  But  she  would  like  to  know  about 
the  clue  the  police  had.     She  had  heard  of  nothing. 

If  it  had  not  been  for  this,  the  evening  might  have  passed 
without  revival  of  the  subject,  for  she  had  made  up  her  mind  not 
to  refer  to  it  again  unless  Mrs.  Carteret  did.  She  left  the 
Observer,  folded,  where  she  had  found  it,  and  seeing  no  disposi- 
tion on  her  friend's  part  to  disturb  it,  said  nothing  of  what 
she  had  read  in  it.  The  continued  presence  of  Lipscombe  during 
dinner,  also,  which  dated  from  her  announcement  thereof  two 
minutes  after  her  mistress  appeared,  stood  in  the  way  of  any 
camcrie  intime.  They  could  and  did,  however,  get  back  to  Tlie 
Cedars,  but  only  as  premises.  The  contingencies  of  the  two 
menages  were  not  for  Lipscombe. 

Mrs.  Carteret  had  never  seen  the  place,  and  had  very  little 
curiosity  about  it;  it  had  seemed,  as  she  expressed  it,  such  an 
unmitigated  castle-in-the-air.  So  far  as  she  could  make  out,  not 
a  single  difficulty  in  the  way  of  the  scheme  had  been  fairly  looked 
in  the  face.  Supposing  that  the  whole  of  what  might  be  called 
the  social  difficulties — Lipscombe  was  outside  at  this  moment — 
could  be  overcome,  how  about  the  cost?  That  was  what  she 
looked  at.  As  far  as  she  could  make  out  from  Fred,  the  very 
lowest  figure  for  barely  making  the  place  livable  was  four 
hundred.  And  here  were  these  young  people  devising  all  sorts 
of  imaginary  alterations  and  additions  to  a  house  which  was 
really  too  large  already.  She  only  went  by  what  she  was  told. 
Fred  admitted  that  we  should  probably  have  to  make  up  our 
minds  to  a  thousand,  and  fifteen  hundred  was  the  price  asked  for 
the  remainder  of  the  lease,  which  was  only  twenty  years !  What 
was  twenty  years?  Young  people  thought  it  was  really  a  long 
iime,  but  that  was  a  complete  mistake.  "  Ask  any  old  stager, 
well  on  in  the  seventies,  how  long  twenty  years  is — see  if  he  does 
not  say  five  minutes !  "     So  said  Mrs.  Carteret. 

Kancy  was  inclined  to  espouse  the  cause  of  twenty  years 
against  this  attack.     *'  Well !  "  said  she.     "  1  don't  know.     I've 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  165 

lasted  twenty-three  years,  and  three  times  twenty-three  is  prac- 
tically seventy.  At  that  rate — I  mean  doing  it  by  arithmetic — 
I  ought  to  think  twenty  years  a  quarter  of  an  hour.  That's  all 
fair  and  no  cheating." 

"Because  of  three  times  five  minutes.     Is  that  it?" 

"  Yes — to  make  it  fair  for  both.  If  your  old  stager  has  a 
right  to  think  twenty  years  five  minutes,  I've  a  right  to  think 
it  a  quarter  of  an  hour.  It  stands  to  reason !  Well,  /  think 
twenty  years  is  quite  twelve  years  morally,  if  not  more." 

"  I'm  afraid  I'm  unphilosophical — or  un-something.  Because 
I  can't  reckon  it  out  that  way.  Besides,  there's  the  way  esti- 
mates jump ;  that  has  to  be  considered." 

"  Make  allowance  for  the  jumping — a  good  big  margin.  Add 
fifty  per  cent.  .  .  .  how  much  is  that?  .  .  .  Anyhow,  add 
plenty  per  cent."     Nancy  fought  shy  of  figures. 

"•'It  wouldn't  be  of  any  use,  dear!  Whatever  allowance  you 
make,  you  have  to  pay  more.  The  man  at  the  office — what's  he 
called :  cashier? — makes  a  bigger  allowance  and  beats.  You  have 
no  chance,  because  he  refers  to  entries." 

"  1  know,  and  if  you  stick  out,  he  finds  he's  made  a  mistake, 
and  charges  more.  It's  like  that  with  boots.  You  are  told 
twelve  shillings  or  thereabouts,  and  they  come  to  fourteen-and- 
six.  It  doesn't  do  to  say  '  suppose  we  say  so  much  '  because  that 
gives  them  a  loophole  to  cheat  through.  If  you  allow  fifteen 
shillings,  they  come  to  se-venteen-and-six. 

"  It's  exactly  the  same  with  big  jobs — houses  and  things." 
Both  ladies  reflected  on  business  matters,  and  Lipscombe  re- 
curred. Mrs.  Carteret  apologised  for  the  smallness  of  the  Sun- 
day menu,  and  Nancy  said  it  was  heaps.  Mrs.  Carteret  consoled 
herself  with  the  reflection  that  she  knew  Kettering  could  make 
mayonnaise  sauce,  and  the  fish  was  very  good  yesterday.  She 
continued  to  chat  on  abstract  points,  perhaps  because  of  Lips- 
combe. You  can't  talk  before  servants,  and  you  know  you  can't 
— not  about  your  Will,  for  instance.  But  you  can  about  Number 
or  Magnitude.  This  lady  said : — "'  I  daresay  you've  noticed, 
Nancy  dear,  what  an  inaccurate  science  Arithmetic  is." 

"  Oh  dear  yes !  "  said  Nancy.  "  It's  never  the  same  two 
minutes  together." 

"  That's  exactly  it.  If  a  sum  would  only  remain  the  same, 
nothing  could  be  more  accurate.  But  somebody  is  sure  to  get 
at  it — when  you've  got  to  pay,  that  is!  When  it's  to  be  paid 
you,  they  take  something  off.  You  can't  say  anything.  If  you 
try,  they  take  off  more.     But  what  the  claim  of  Arithmetic  is 


16G  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

to  be  considered  an  Exact  Science — at  least  while  it's  done  by 
other  people — Heaven  only  knows  !  " 

Nancy  was  pleased  that  her  friend  should  run  on  like  this; 
although  to  do  so  she  was  very  negligent  of  the  fish  mayonnaise. 
But  it  implied  that  her  mind  was  free  for  the  time  being;  the 
nightmare  was  in  abeyance.  Nancy  resolved  that  it  was  best 
not  to  recur  to  it,  although  she  was  keenly  anxious  to  know  what 
that  clue  could  be  that  the  newspaper  alleged  was  in  the  hands 
of  the  police. 

So  they  chatted  on  the  subjects  of  the  day.  As  for  instance 
Psychical  Research,  which  Mrs.  Carteret  said  reminded  her  of 
Edie  Ochiltree  and  "  Ye  are  gude  seekers  but  ill  finders,"  when 
he  helped  Herman  Dousterswivel  to  dig  for  treasure.  Or  the  last 
new  bacillus  discovered  in  Berlin,  who  was  going  to  be  an  antidote 
to  drunkenness  and  insanity,  as  well  as  tuberculosis.  Nancy  had 
heard  of  him  at  first  hand,  so  to  speak.  "  Papa  was  quite  elo- 
quent about  him,  bless  his  little  heart !  "  said  she,  '"'  after  he  met 
Professor  Grockstroysch,  or  some  such  name,  at  the  soiree  in 
Albemarle  Street."  Mrs.  Carteret  wanted  to  know  how  this 
Professor  came  to  know  anything  about  him;  but  explained, 
after  elucidations,  that  she  thought  Nancy  might  be  speaking  of 
her  little  brother,  and  apologised  for  inattention.  Professor 
Gutturals — that  was  the  nearest  she  could  go — was  very  inter- 
esting. But  wasn't  it  rather  .  .  .  she  wouldn't  say  disrespect- 
ful. .  .  .  Well — suppose  she  said  open  to  misinterpretation ! 
...   to  bless  her  father's  little  heart  ?  " 

Nancy  had  to  think  back,  to  get  the  clue  to  this.  "  Oh — I 
see,"  she  said.  "  It  must  have  sounded  exactly  like  that.  Bless 
papa's  little  heart  by  all  means !  But  I  meant  the  bacillus. 
Why,  he's  only  decimal  ought-ought-ought  something  of  a  milli- 
gram long.  I  forget  exactly  what,  but  I  know  he's  Jolly  small." 
This  and  remarks  of  a  like  sort  would  force  a  smile  from  Mrs. 
Carteret,  more  at  the  unconscious  gravity  of  the  speaker  than  the 
substance  of  what  she  said.  As  for  Nancy,  probably  this  was 
only  her  trivial  treatment  of  the  topics  of  the  passing  hour,  a 
little  exaggerated  by  a  desire  to  avoid  the  subject  in  the  back- 
ground of  the  minds  of  both.  But  it  hung  on  her  lips,  watched 
in  corners  of  her  mind  for  moments  when  no  other  thought 
occupied  them ;  would  not  be  gone  and  leave  her  free.  Especially 
those  last  words  of  the  newspaper  paragraph  haunted  her,  about 
the  supposed  success  of  the  police.  Mrs.  Carteret  must  know 
what  it  was  surely,  if  the  Observer  did. 

Curiosity,  backed  by  a  feeling  that  each  knew  the  other  was 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  167 

beset  with  silence  about  a  thing  that  defied  forgetting,  got  the 
better  of  Nancy,  and  she  was  -the  first  to  speak,  taking  for 
granted  her  friend's  knowledge.  "  I  wonder  what  the  clue  is  ?  " 
said  she. 

Mrs.  Carteret  understood  her  to  mean, — what  clue  would  be 
found  ultimately?  There  was  no  clue  at  present — she  knew 
that.     Her  reply  was — "  Yes — I  wonder,  dear  !  " 

"But  don't  you  ktiow?" 

"  How  do  you  mean  know,  dear?  " 

"  Haven't  the  police  told  you  ?  " 

"  I  don't  understand."  The  way  she  looked  round  showed 
that  she  did  not. 

"  The  paragraph  in  the  newspaper.  The  clue  the  police  have. 
It  said  they  had.  ...  At  least,  I'm  almost  sure."  Was  it  a 
mistake  of  hers?  She  rose  and  took  up  the  Observer-  from  the 
curly  chair.  Yes — there  it  was — sure  enough  !  '*  Look  here  !  " 
she  said,  and  handed  the  open  sheet  to  Mrs.  Carteret,  with  her 
finger  on  the  paragraph. 

"  I  have  never  seen  this,"  said  that  lady.  She  took  it  and 
read  it,  but  did  not  seem  disturbed  by  it  at  the  moment.  She 
seemed  to  read  it  twice  through,  carefully ;  then  folded  the  paper 
and  put  it  aside  on  the  nearest  table.  "■  I  wonder  who  wrote 
that,"  said  she.  "  The  police  have  no  new  clue — at  least,  they 
had  none  when  Fred  saw  them  yesterday,  or  Friday  was  it? 
Besides   ..." 

"  Besides  what?  " 

"  No  one  that  knew  anything  about  it  would  have  written 
that  nonsense  about  Sunday.  The  idea  of  stopping  at  home 
because  it  was  Sunday  never  would  have  crossed  my  brother-in- 
law's  mind.  Now  who  ever  wrote  that  nonsense?  No  one 
knows  anything  about  it  except  the  people  at  the  school.  And 
the  police,  of  course." 

Nancy  jumped  to  a  conclusion.  "  Then  it  must  be  the  people 
at  the  school,"  said  she,  confidently. 

Mrs.  Carteret  considered  dreamily,  with  her  eyes  on  the  fire. 

"  It  is  certainly  not  Mrs.  Orpen.  Nor  the  boys,  because  she 
has  told  them  Dr.  Carteret  has  been  sent  for  on  important  busi- 
ness, and  she  says  they  are  quite  satisfied.  Nor  the  masters,  if 
the  one  that  came  here  is  a  sample.  If  ever  I  saw  ...  a 
patch  of  discretion,  it's  that  man !  Besides,  how  about  the 
Sunday  nonsense?     They  all  knew  him  better  than  that." 

"  Then  it  must  be  somebody  else." 

"  That  seems  reasonable.     But  who  ?     That's  the  point." 


168  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

"  Fred  must  have  told  somebody." 

*'  He  says  distinctly  that  he  hasn't.   .    .    .  Well — except  of 
course  Mr.  Snaith." 
"  Why,  of  course?  " 
"  Won't  you  allow  him  his  '  of  course.' 


*'  I  won't  allow  Mr.  Snaith  anything,  with 


» 


I  know  what  you  were  going  to  say."  For  Nancy  had  pulled 
up  short. 

'*  What  was  I  going  to  say?  " 

"  '  With  a  nose  like  that.'  " 

"  1  wasn't,"  said  Nancy,  emphatically.  But  her  ingrained 
truthfulness  called  for  qualification.  "  At  least  not  exactly  that! 
I  do  wish  he  was  better  looking  though,  if  he's  to  be  told  things. 
And  after  all,  I  only  said  I  didn't  see  his  '  of  course.'  The 
police  of  course,  if  you  like;  but  why  Mr.  Snaith  of  course? 
His  nose  doesn't  come  in."  Mrs.  Carteret  explained  that  this 
gentleman,  besides  having  been  at  school  and  college  with  Fred, 
was  his  legal  adviser,  and  under  a  professional  obligation  to  his 
clients  in  all  matters  of  confidence.  He  certainly  would  not, 
without  consulting  Fred,  have  sanctioned  the  insertion  of  this 
paragraph,  or  any  paragraph,  in  the  daily  Press.  She  was  con- 
vinced that  Fred  had  not  seen  it,  or  he  would  have  told 
her. 

A  short  interruption  here  was  caused  by  the  appearance  of 
Lipscombe,  who  was  due  about  ten  o'clock  to  induce  Liebig  and 
the  cat  to  retire  for  the  night  to  their  proper  sleeping  quarters. 
It  would  have  been  shorter  still  if  Liebig  had  been  convinced 
by  repeated  experience  that  endeavours  to  sleep  in  the  drawing- 
room  were  useless.  He  clung  to  the  idea  that  craft  might  suc- 
ceed where  reason  failed.  "  I  think,"  said  Mrs.  Carteret  when 
Lipscombe  appeared,  "  that  the  dog  is  behind  the  curtain  this 
time."  He  was,  and  was  deported.  The  cat,  less  inventive  or 
more  orderly,  accepted  the  position  without  protest.  Lipscombe, 
who  seemed  to  think  she  might  be  somehow  essential  to  the 
bicyclist's  departure,  was  told  she  need  not  wait  up,  and  went  to 
bed.  Then  the  two  ladies  were  left  to  themselves  to  have  a 
short  chat  more  before  parting. 

Nancy  had  got  a  very  thoughtful  look  upon  her,  with  her  grave 
frank  eyes  on  the  fire,  as  though  something  she  wanted  to  know 
lay  hid  there.  Mrs.  Carteret  acquiesced  in  silence  when  she  did 
not  break  it,  and  seemed  to  find  the  sight  of  her  young  friend  a 
distraction  from  the  tension  of  her  thoughts,  for  she  still  kept 
looking   at  her.      Presently   she   said — "Yes — what?"  not   in 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  169 

response  to  anything  her  companion  had  said,  but  to  an  inflec- 
tion of  countenance  that  looked  like  speech. 

"  Only,"  said  Nancy,  slowly  and  something  doubtfully.  She 
ended  abruptly : — "  Only  something  I  was  going  to  say." 

"Well— what  was  it?" 

"  If  I  had  said  it,  it  would  have  been   ..." 

"  Would  have  been  what  ?  " 

"  But,  you  see,  I  changed  my  mind  and  didn't  say  it.  I'm 
not  sure  that  I  ought  to." 

"  I  can't  tell  without  knowing  what  it  would  have  been." 

"  It's  only  an  idea,  you  know." 

"  All  right.     Go  on." 

"  Mr.  Snaith  is  engaged  to  Miss  Lucy  Hinchliffe." 

"  Suppose  he  is !  "     Mrs.  €arteret  looked  amused  and  puzzled. 

"We  knoAV  he  is,  don't  we?  Well,  that  girl  could  wheedle 
anything  out  of  me.  She  could  wheedle  the  clothes  off  my  back." 
The  speaker  felt  that  this  was  at  least  inartistic,  and  hastened 
to  adjust  its  accuracy.  "  Only  mine  are  too  large  for  her.  She'>- 
smaller  than  I  am." 

Mrs.  Carteret  laughed  outright,  for  the  first  time.  "  Mr. 
Snaith,"  said  she,  "  isn't  such  a  susceptible  young  chap  as  you 
are!  Why,  my  child,  do  you  suppose  that  any  sensible  man  of 
the  world,  in  Snaith's  position,  would  allow  a  little  monkey  like 
that  to  twist  him  round  her  finger  ?  " 

Nancy  nodded  several  times,  with  gravity.  "  She  could  me," 
she  said.  "  Why  not  him  ? — when  he's  in  love  with  her,  all 
square !  " 

"  Are  you  in  love  with  her  all, zigzag?     Or  how?  " 

Nancy  dwelt  on  the  problem  a  moment  before  answering: — 
"  It  doesn't  work  out  that  way,"  said  she  evasively. 

Mrs.  Carteret  gave  serious  thought  to  the  main  question. 
"  I'm  sure  you're  wrong,  Nancy  dear,"  she  said.  "  Unless  Fred- 
eric asked  him  to  talk  to  her  about  it,  he  would  hold  his  tongue. 
He  was  bound  in  honour  to  do  so." 

Nancy  seemed  to  have  a  violent  fit  of  insight  upon  her.  She 
said : — "  Fred  wouldn't  ask  him  to  talk  to  her  about  it — why 
should  he?  But  if  he  asked  Fred  if  he  might,  Fred  would  be 
weak,  and  say  yes.  Men  are  like  that — they  cave  out."  She 
had  a  very  low  opinion  of  male  stability.  Her  friend  only 
laughed  at  her,  and  said  she  was  nonsensical.  But  she  was  right 
all  the  time. 

Still  though  Mrs.  Carteret  discredited  Nancy's  conclusions,  she 
was  amused  at  her  positiveness,  and  seemed  to  find  a  pleasure  in 


170  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

wondering  what  new  perversity  was  hatcliing  in  that  foolish 
young  brain.  She  went  back  to  a  chance  of  conversation  that 
had  almost  become  prehistoric — anyhow,  the  Bagster  Sutcliffes 
had  happened  since — and  wanted  to  know  what  some  thought 
was  that  Nancy  had  kept  to  herself.  It  was  an  elusive  thing  to 
ask  after,  and  she  had  to  consider  what  was  possible.  She  de- 
cided on: — "  What  was  it  that  wasn't  a  coal?  " 

Nancy  had  not  the  slightest  idea  what  this  meant,  and  thought 
it  was  a  conundrum.  She  said : — "  Now,  don't  hurry  me,  and 
perhaps  I  shall  guess  it.     I  hate  giving  them  up." 

"What  can  the  child  mean?"  said  Mrs.  Carteret.  Then, 
suddenly  enlightened : — "  Oh,  I  see  !  No,  I'm  not  asking  you  a 
riddle,  dear !  I  mean  before  those  plaguy  people  came.  You 
said  an  idea  came  into  your  head.     What  was  the  idea  ?  " 

Nancy  looked  very  uncomfortable.  Another  girl  would  have 
said  she  had  forgotten  the  idea.  And  it  must  be  admitted  that 
most  folks  would  consider  one  had  a  prerogative  of  oblivion  of 
one's  own  ideas — for  are  they  not  one's  own,  if  anything  is? 
But  by  this  time  she  had  remembered  both  the  coal  and  the 
context.  And  it  was  equally  impossible  to  reveal  the  idea  and 
— for  her,  she  being  herself — to  fabricate  evasions.  So  she 
said : — "  Dear  Mrs.  Carteret,  would  you  mind  my  not  telling 
you  what  it  was?  I  would  so  much  rather  not."  ^Vhy — of 
course !     But  Mrs.  Carteret  was  very  curious,  for  all  that. 

This  must  have  been  about  half-past  ten  o'clock.  And  though 
Nancy  talked  very  big  about  her  recklessness  of  riding  in  the 
dark,  she  knew  her  family  would  begin  to  be  uneasy  before 
midnight.  She  could  not  understand  why  they  should  be  more 
imeasy  after  midnight  than  after  midday.  But  one  has  to  accept 
one's  family  as  it  has  been  supplied  by  Nature. 

So  as  a  preliminary  thin  end  of  the  wedge,  she  said  it  must  be 
getting  late.  To  which  her  hostess  replied  that  it  couldn't  be 
really  late  yet.  They  talked  of  lateness  as  if  it  was  a  quality 
the  Hours  acquired  with  Time,  a  bouquet  as  of  wine  in  the  bin. 
In  deference  to  the  intrinsic  impossibility  of  their  having  de- 
veloped this  bouquet,  neither  looked  at  her  watch ;  and  that  clock 
was  wrong,  said  the  owner.  Nevertheless,  it  was  evident  that 
belief  in  this  i^ipossibility  was  only  skin-deep,  from  the  creeping 
in  of  peroration,  insidiously.  Thej  harked  back  on  leading 
topics,  and  showed  a  tendency  to  wind  them  up.  They  arranged 
a  visit  to  The  Cedars — going  over  premises  was  always  a  fas- 
cinating employment ! — although  Mrs.  Carteret  was  satisfied  that 
it  was  the  veriest  castle-in-the-air,  and  would  come  to  nothing. 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  171 

Then  they  supposed  that  the  lovers  had  been  blest  in  one 
another's  company,  and  remarked  that  if  they  quarrelled  half 
a  dozen  times  a  day  it  did  not  matter,  provided  they  ended  on 
a  reconciliation.  Mrs.  Carteret  expressed  confidence  in  her  son's 
stability.  She  knew  that  in  his  professional  departures  he  had 
shown — well,  one  ought  to  call  it  perhaps  a  lack  of  concentration, 
but  this  applied  only  to  his  intellectual  life.  Where  the  heart 
was  concerned  he  was  stability  itself.  She  believed  this,  evi- 
dently, and  Nancy  said  : — "  Oh  yes  !  "  Then  they  used  the  fag- 
end  of  their  day's  intercourse  for  a  serious  addendum  about 
the  shadow  that  was  darkening  the  time  for  one  of  them  directly, 
for  the  other  by  sympathy,  making  the  most  of  any  possible 
light  behind  the  cloud. 

"  I  will  write  the  moment  we  hear  anvthing,"  said  Mrs. 
Carteret.  '^  Indeed,  I'm  not  sure  I  won't  telegraph.  I  shall  if 
it's  good." 

"  Oh  do! — it  would  be  so  nice  of  you.  You'll  see,  you'll  have 
to  telegraph." 

"  I  shall  hope  to.  But  oh  dear — how  the  time  will  keep  on 
going!     It's  three  weeks  already.     I  sometimes  feel  quite  sick." 

"■  Three  weeks  is  nothing."  Nancy  put  plenty  of  emphasis 
intQ  this;  she  was  not  going  in  for  encouragement  by  halves. 
"  People  have  disappeared  for  months  and  years,  from  all  sorts 
of  causes,  and  turned  up  all  right  in  the  end."  All  the  same, 
the  young  lady  was  not  sorry  she  was  not  called  on  to  give 
instances.  She  may  even  have  jisen  to  the  necessity  for  going 
in  order  to  avoid  doing  so.  "  I  really  must  be  off,"  she  said ; 
and  then  added,  laughing : — "  I  feel  exactly  like  the  Wliat's- 
their-names — Bagster  Sutcliffes." 

Then  followed  a  short  interregnvim  of  lamp-lighting  and 
preparation,  and  she  was  off,  and  Mrs.  Carteret  felt  painfully 
alone.  But  Fred  would  be  back  soon.  She  was  going  to  sit 
up  for  him. 

If  this  lady  had  known  how  many  of  the  items  of  that  last 
postscript  of  chat  with  her  young  friend  were  destined  to  be 
thwarted  or  falsified  in  the  near  future  .  .  .  !  But  there ! — 
if  we  were  all  prophets,  would  Life  be  worth  living?  What  is 
its  value  now,  even  with  a  curtain  ahead  that  our  imaginations 
may  run  riot  behind,  and  Hope  always  at  hand  to  give  them  a 
lift? 


CHAPTER  XII 

Mrs.  Carteret  almost  wished  that  the  little  dachshund's  sub- 
terfuge had  succeeded,  so  lonely  did  the  place  feel  after  she  had 
watched  the  bicyclist's  lamp  turn  the  first  corner,  and  heard  the 
last  audible  exclamation  of  her  bell.  Also  after  she  had  admitted 
that  it  was  a  fine  night.  This  was  to  the  night  policeman  on  his 
beat,  who  had  seemed  interested  in  the  bicycle,  and  turned  his 
bull's-eye  on  it.  She  returned  his  good-night,  and  went  indoors. 
Yes,  Liebig  would  not  have  been  unwelcome  in  the  empty  draw- 
ing-room, although  the  callous  egotism  of  his  nature  was  not 
suggestive  of  sympathy. 

Fred  might  bo  very  late.  She  knew  the  extraordinary  elasticity 
of  the  times  of  trains,  and  that  lastnoss  was  only  an  official 
quality  of  a  penultimate  train,  that  might  safely  be  ignored  by 
a  gentleman  who,  as  it  were,  knew  railways  at  home.  For  the 
engineering  firm  that  had  been  Fred's  alma  mater  was  deeply  in 
the  confidence  of  railways.  All  that  she  could  rely  upon  was 
that  the  Fraser  family  would  retire  to  bed  at  twelve,  at  the  latest. 
So  she  should  make  up  her  mind  to  see  nothing  of  her  son  till 
one,  at  the  earliest.  She  would  write  letters,  presently.  For 
the  time  being,  she  would  think  over  this  girl  and  her  ways. 
She  confessed  to  herself  that  she  was  getting  very  much  attached 
to  her. 

How  very  superior  to  her  sister  she  was !  Wliy  on  earth  need 
Fred  go  and  fall  in  love  with  Cintra,  when  it  was  so  obviously 
wiser  for  him — for  any  man — to  fall  in  love  with  Xancy?  But 
that  was  just  like  men.  Any  frivolous  chit,  with  a  pretty  face — 
she  did  not  deny  the  prettiness — had  all  mankind  at  her  feet, 
while  girls  with  hearts  and  souls  and  lives  and  purposes  simply 
went  to  the  wall.  Of  course  she  could  not  be  sure,  yet-awhile, 
about  this  Nancy  girl.  But  she  certainly  had  a  very  good  im- 
pression of  her.  She  was  not  going  to  admit  to  herself  that  she 
was  inclined  to  love  her. 

As  for  that  explosion  of  the  sister  against  the  other  girl — 
Mr.  Snaith's  girl — it  was  simply  an  outburst  of  unreasoning 
jealousy,  and  if  that  was  the  sort  of  thing  Fred  had  to  expect 
all  that  she  could  say  was  that  she  was  bitterly  sorry  for  him. 
After  all,  it  was  not  as  if  she  herself  had  not  been  in  the  room 

172 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  173 

all  the  time  and  •seen  everything  that  took  place.  Jealousy  of 
that  sort  was  no  proof  of  affection,  but  rather  the  contrary.  At 
least,  it  was  a  confession  of  entire  absence  of  confidence  in  her 
lover.  Would  the  thing  last?  We  should  see.  At  any  rate,  she 
should  say  nothing.  One  always  did  more  harm  than  good  by 
meddling,  in  things  of  this  sort. 

She  should  show  that  paragraph  in  the  newspaper  to  Fred  as 
soon  as  he  came  in.  It  could  do  no  serious  harm.  But  it  was 
very  mysterious.  It  could  never  have  been  written  by  anyone 
who  had  a  first-hand  knowledge  of  the  matters  it  referred  to; 
and  was,  in  fact,  newsmongering  on  the  face  of  it.  Some  penny- 
a-liner's  work.  As  for  that  dear  crazy-pated  girl's  dream,  that 
it  resulted  from  some  indiscreet  utterance  of  Mr.  Snaith — -what 
an  idea!     A  breach  of  confidence  by  the  Lord  Chancellor! 

Well — she  was  a  crazy-pated  girl !  What  was  her  idea  that 
wasn't  coal  ?  Mrs.  Carteret  smiled  as  she  remembered  the 
earnest  hazel  eyes,  waiting  for  permission  for  their  owner  to  be 
silent.  "  ]yonId  I  mind  her  not  telling?  She  would  so  much 
rather  not."  She  repeated  the  words,  and  the  smile  died  of  an 
effort  to  remember  what  topic  had  provoked  this  thought  she 
was  so  unwilling  to  tell.  It  was  before  those  tiresome  visitor 
people  came.  She  was  then  guilty,  the  story  feels,  of  an  unfair 
and  illiberal  semi-comment,  half-aloud : — "  The  Bagster  Sut- 
clifies,  indeed  !•"  Now  if  these  people  liad  not  been  named  thus, 
they  would  have  had  some  other  name. 

Yes, -she  had  recollected  the  moment  of  the  coal.  But  what 
on  earth  were  they  talking  about  then?  If  she  could  get  at  that, 
conjecture  would  have  a  chance  of  a  glimpse  into  that  dear 
crazy  mind.  But  her  effort  of  memory,  after  all,  led  nowhere. 
For  she  was  sure  that,  at  that  exact  moment,  she  had  been  speak- 
ing about  what  her  own  mother  had  said  to  her,  years  and 
years  ago,  about  that  love-affair  of  her  brother-in-law,  before 
lever  she  herself  was  married.  It  was  not  about  thai  ? — one  might 
be  pretty  sure!  What  should  Nancy  Fraser  have  ideas  for,  espe- 
/cially  ideas  she  wouldn't  tell,  about  a  thing  of  no  interest  to  her, 
that  happened  before  she  was  born  or  in  contemplation?  Quite 
out  of  the  question ! 

But  this  rejection  of  the  thing  as  impossible  was  to  set  her 
thinking  on  the  subject  it  related  to.  She  got  well  back  in  a 
dream  of  the  past,  to  be  roused  from  it  by  the  sudden  clang  of 
a  pull  at  her  own  gate-bell. 

\Vliat  was  that?  Surely  not  Fred  back  again  already!  How 
could  it  be,  when  he  had  his  own  key,  as  well  as  a  latchkey  for 

12 


174  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

the  door?  It  was  needed,  for  at  night  the  gate  was  fastened. 
She  knew !  It  was  that  night-latch  out  of  order.  To  be  sure ! 
But  how  came  he  to  be  so  early?     It  was  not  much  past  eleven. 

She  heard  one  of  the  servants  moving,  to  go  down  and  open 
the  gate.  But  she  was  too  curious  to  know  what  had  brought 
him  with  such  double-quick  speed,  to  wait  for  a  sleepy  hand- 
maiden to  get  "  things  on,"  and  was  out  of  the  house  first.  But 
it  was  not  Fred.  She  found  that  out  before  she  reached  the 
gate.  People  were  outside,  talking;  but  seriously,  not  trivially — 
talking  about  something.  It  must  be  a  mistake.  Probably  the 
wrong  house. 

"  What  is  it  ?  This  is  number  seventeen."  She  felt  so  sure 
her  surmise  was  correct,  that  she  anticipated  action  upon  it. 

Then  she  heard  a  man's  voice  say : — "  It's  all  right  as  I  told 
you.     That's  the  lady's  voice." 

She  threw  the  gate  open  instantly,  and  saw  a  face  she  had  seen 
before  that  evening,  the  policeman  who  had  bull's-eyed  Xancy's 
bicycle  when  she  left  the  gate  twenty  minutes  since.  And  beyond 
him  something  dark  and  covered  on  a  stretcher. 

A  young  man,  approaching  quickly,  said : — "  Not  out  here. 
Get  her  into  the  house."  To  which  someone  made  answer : — 
*'  Eight  you  are,  doctor !  Fetch  up  your  end,  Sam !  "  WTiere- 
upon  the  something  travelled  through  the  garden  and  into  the 
entrance  lobby. 

The  whole  world  had  become  a  stunning  boom  in  her  head, 
accompanied  by  a  strange  consciousness  that  it  had  got  to  sub- 
side. It  was  the  knowledge  that  a  decision  was  wanted  as  to 
where  the  something  should  be  carried  that  roused  her  to  articu- 
late speech.  That  climb  up  the  stairs  must  be  avoided  if  possible. 
Now,  there  was  a  bedroom  on  the  ground  floor,  which  was  Fred's 
when  needed,  or  anyone's  in  his  absence.  Into  this  she  directed 
the  bearers.     Dared  she  followed  them  ? 

Yes,  after  a  pause  of  a  moment  to  help  her  against  her  head. 
It  was  her  enemy.  The  moment  was  longer  than  she  thought, 
for  when  she  mustered  courage  to  enter,  it  was  into  a  mysterious 
smell  like  ether  with  a  young  doctor  in  his  shirt  sleeves  in  it,  who 
was  saying : — "  I  can  tell  you  she's  not  dead.  That's  all  for 
the  present,  and  that's  enough."  Then,  hearing  that,  her  head 
cleared,  and  she  became  herself.  "  I  am  all  right  now,"  she  said 
to  the  doctor.     "  It  was  only  at  first.     Now  tell  me  everything." 

"  I  can't  find  any  fracture,"  said  he.  And  it  was  then  she 
became  aware  how  long  that  moment  must  have  been.  For  he 
continued : — "  I  have  made  all  the  examination  possible,  and  I 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  175 

hope  it's  no  more  than  a  bad  concussion.  If  so,  she  may  be  all 
right  to-morrow.  But  it's  my  duty  to  tell  you  that  we  can't  be 
sure  the  spine  isn't  injured."  It  then  appeared  that  this  doctor 
could  not  stay,  but  that  someone  of  the  household  had  been  sent 
to  summon,  if  possible,  her  regular  medical  attendant,  to  take 
over  the  case;  and  also,  if  possible,  to  get  a  prescription  made 
up,  in  spite  of  the  late  hour.  He  himself  had  been  just  return- 
ing home  from  a  patient,  when  he  had  chanced  upon  the  acci- 
dent, and  seeing  it  was  a  matter  of  urgency,  had  submitted  to 
detention.  "  I  know  I  am  wanted  at  home,"  said  he,  "  or  I 
would  have  stayed  on.  But  it  wouldn't  be  any  good,  as  far  as 
doing  anything  goes.  I'm  sure  there  are  no  bones  broken.  She 
came  down  on  her  head.  ...  I  saw  the  fall,  you  know."  Xo 
— she  did  not  know.  How  was  it?  He  gave  particulars.  The 
young  lady's  own  riding  was  in  perfect  order ;  right  side  of  the 
way,  sounding  her  bell,  and  so  forth.  The  cart  that  collided 
with  her  had  swung  round  a  corner  close  to  the  kerb  on  its  right, 
and  swerving  to  avoid  it,  she  had  struck  the  kerbstone  and 
fallen  full  on  her  head  on  the  pavement.  "  I  saw  the  fall 
clearly,"  said  he,  "  and  the  left  shoulder's  all  right.  She  could 
have  been  hurt  nowhere  else,  except  the  spine.  I  don't  anticipate 
anything,  but,  as  I  said,  we  can't  tell." 

Mrs.  Carteret,  quite  overwhelmed  at  first  by  this  new  trouble, 
was  beginning  to  collect  her  faculties.  "  How  did  you  find  out 
where  to  bring  her?"  said  she.  This  was  soon  explained.  A 
policeman  had  identified  the  bicycle  by  the  red  leather  wallet, 
which  he  had  seen  as  the  rider  was  leaving  a  house  in  Maida 
Vale — this  house  in  fact.     Then  Mrs.  Carteret  could  trace  each 

1     event,  as  it  happened.     Her  dear  girl  had  only  got  the  length 

1  of  a  policeman's  beat  from  the  liouse,  at  the  very  outside,  when 
this  accursed  cart,  with  its  probably  drunken  driver,  had  stopped 

I  her  bicycling  for  months — for  years — for  ever  perhaps.  This 
was  all  the  evil  anticipation  she  felt  strong  enough  to  bear,  now. 

.    At  all  forecasting  of  a  fatal  end,  thought  shrunk  back  shudder- 

f    ing  and  was  silent. 

She  was  not  overclear,  afterwards,  about  any  of  these  hap- 

I    penings,  but  she  remembered  about  this  time  that  she  felt  sick, 

'.  and  could  no  longer  endure  to  keep  gazing  at  the  motionless 
figure  on  the  bed,  with  its  terrible  white  suggestion  of  death  on 

I  the  face.  She  left  the  room,  for  a  moment's  freedom  from  it, 
meaning  to  return  immediately.  But  outside  were  the  house- 
hold, untidy  in  extemporised  costume,  hungry  for  news,  each  one 
on  the  watch  to  claim  credit  for  some  service  rendered,  having 


176  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

rendered  none.  Sho  made  a  show — a  poor  one — of  a  fayourable 
report,  for  encouragement ;  and  while  the  better,  or  human,  side 
of  the  female  domestic  was  glad,  the  sensational  side  was  baffled 
and  disappointed.  It  revived,  however,  when  Lipscombe  returned 
with  Dr.  Culpepper,  the  tutelary  Galen  of  Maida  Vale,  who 
said : — "  Sorry  to  hear  of  the  accident,  Mrs.  Carteret.  Your 
maid  told  nie.  Let's  see  the  patient,"  and  passed  into  the 
bedroom. 

He  and  the  other  doctor  seemed  acquaintances.  "  You  saw 
the  fall,  Harrison?"  said  he,  and  the  other  told  about  it  in  an 
undertone.  "  You're  sure  about  the  shoulder,"  he  went  on,  and 
the  answer  was : — "  Absolutely  certain."  Dr.  Culpepper  then 
said,  addressing  Mrs.  Carteret : — "  I  think  you  may  rely  on  that. 
Mr.  Harrison  is  a  very  strong  man  in  surgery.  I  consider  his 
opinion  better  than  my  own.  I  shall  not  examine  the  shoulder 
myself.  .  .  .  Unless  you  wish  it,  of  course  ?  "  But  Mrs.  Car- 
teret had  no  wish,  either  way. 

Then  Mr.  Harrispn  went,  and  a  nurse  came,  somehow  arranged 
for  by  Dr.  Culpepper.  And  all  the  while  the  motionless  figure 
on  the  bed,  that  was  Nancy  Fraser,  showed  no  sign  of  life.  But 
neither  nurse  nor  doctors  seemed  alarmed  at  that.  Then,  when 
all  seemed  settled.  Dr.  Culpepper  went  away  also,  and  Mrs. 
Carteret  went  out  at  the  front  door  into  the  clear  starlight  night. 

Those  stars  should  by  now  have  seen  her  girl's  arrival  at  home. 
How  little  they  cared !  And  at  that  home  of  hers,  how  they 
Avould  wonder  when  Nancy  would  be  back,  and  invent  new  possi- 
bilities to  account  for  the  delay  in  her  arrival.  She  could  fancy 
the  panic-stricken  voice  of  the  brother  or  sister  who  had  settled 
not  to  wait  up,  but  to  go  to  bed  and  sleep,  catching  in  a  waking 
moment  some  sound  of  speech  below,  and  calling  to  the 
watchers: — "Isn't  Nancy  come  in  yetf"  She  knew  how  the 
father  or  brother  would  come  post-haste  in  the  morning,  before 
any  telegram  she  could  send  could  reach  them,  to  learn  what 
sombre  news  she  had  to  give.  Oh,  if  only  consciousness  had 
returned  by  then,  what  a  gain  that  would  be ! 

She  went  back  restlessly,  and  packed  the  household  off  to  bed, 
telling  them  what  was  not  true,  that  there  had  been  signs  of 
consciousness  in  the  patient.  This  was  that  they  might  slee[). 
But  her  solicitude  for  them  was  quite  uncalled  for.  They  would 
have  slept — trust  them  for  that !  She  talked  a  little  with  the 
nurse,  but  found  her  depressing,  as  she  destroyed  the  value  of 
her  sanguineness  about  the  return  of  consciousness  before  morn- 
ing, by  dwelling  on  the  probability  of  secondary  consequences 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  177 

to  follow.  "  You  get  lockjaw,  as  often  as  not,"  she  said.  And 
she  had  known  creeping  paralysis  to  set  in  after  the  patient  had 
been  credited  with  complete  recovery.  So  Mrs.  Carteret,  after 
detecting,  or  fancying  she  detected,  some  sign  of  returning  colour 
in  the  pallid  face,  and  then  condemning  her  own  hope  as  futile, 
again  left  the  room  and  went  uneasily  down  the  garden  path  to 
the  gate,  and  stood  watching  along  the  road  for  Fred,  as  people 
do  for  late  comers  overdue,  knowing  all  the  while  how  little  they 
gain  by  doing  so. 

But  Fred  was  overdue — no  doubt  of  that !  That  was  one 
o'clock — and  that — and  that !  They  were  all  of  a  mind,  from 
her  own  clock  in  the  hall,  heard  through  the  door  she  had  left 
open,  to  deliberate  Big  Ben  at  remote  Westminster,  showing  how 
the  east  wind  was  veering  south.  She  wished  he  would  come; 
his  presence  would  be  a  great  help.  .  .  .  There  was  a  cab 
stopping.     That  would  be  him ! 

It  was  not  him.  It  was  an  indignant  hoarse  gentlv^man,  who 
roared  to  his  cabman : — "  I  told  you  Acacia  Eoad — wher^  are 
you  going?"  She  heard  the  cabman's  reply: — "You  git  more 
riding  for  your  money  this  way,  anyhow !  "  as  he  pulled  up  and 
turned  down  a  plausible  road.  Then  the  hoarse  gentleman's 
growls  died  down  in  the  distance. 

The  policeman  coming  slowly  along  the  pavement  was  the 
same  policeman,  still  on  his  beat.  She  waited  for  him.  He 
might  tell  her  something. 

She  thought  he  was  not  going  to  speak,  and  indeed  he  all  but 
passed  the  gate,  without  doing  so.  But  he  turned  square  and 
faced  her,  to  say : — "  A  serious  job,  ma'am,  I'm  afraid ;  "  and 
waited  for  confirmation  or  contradiction. 

"  Serious — yes !  But  the  doctors  say  she  is  only  stunned,  and 
will  most  likely  come  to  in  an  hour  or  two."  Her  words  sounded 
hopeful  to  herself,  but  she  mistrusted  them. 

"  Well — maybe  they'll  be  right.  It  was  a  bad  fall,  they  said 
round  at  the  accident." 

"  You  didn't  actually  see  it,  then  ?  "    She  had  thought  he  did. 

"  It  happened  before  I  come  up.  The  doctor  saT7  it — the 
young  gentleman."    - 

"  So  he  told  me.     You  knew  her  again.     It  v;a^^  lucky.'" 

"  I  might  not  have  known  her.  Young  ladies  run  of  a  much- 
ness. Sometimes  you  can't  tell  'em  apart.  But  the  marocker 
knapsack  I  went  by.  There  couldn't  have  been  two  such,  not  in 
a  short  half-mile." 

"  What  v^ould  have  happened  if  you  had  not  recognised  her?** 


178  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

"  They'd  have  identified  her  at  the  infirmary,  and  communi- 
cated." 

"  Suppose  she  liad  had  notliing  on  Iier  to  identify  her?" 

"  That  docs  liappen,  now  and  again.  Then  they  have  to  keep 
'em  pending  enquiry.  If  a  bicychst  rides  without  his  card  in  his 
pocket  he's  the  responsible  party  himself.  It's  his  own  lookout, 
and  he  knows  what  to  expect."  This  policeman  had  renounced 
all  human  interests^  and  had  devoted  his  whole  soul  to  Kespon- 
sibility. 

jSTo  sign  of  Fred !  Mrs.  Carteret  said  good-night  to  the 
policeman  and  returned  into  the  house.  It  was  just  possible  that 
Fred,  if  made  very  late  by  some  unforeseen  cause,  might  go 
straight  to  his  chambers  and  sleep  there — just  possible,  but  not 
very  likely.  It  was  rather  a  device  of  her  mind  to  shelve  a  new 
anxiety,  than  a  reasonable  conviction. 

She  and  the  nurse  stood  together  by  the  motionless  figure  on 
the  bed.   .    .    .   Yes — quite  motionless,  but   .    .    .  ! 

The  room  was  half  darkened — one  gas-jet  only — a  glimmer 
accented,  no  more.  Mrs.  Carteret  said : — "  I  want  more  light  to 
see  the  face.     Is  there  any  objection  ?  " 

The  nurse  replied,  through  a  palpable  yawn: — '•  None  that  I 
know  of.  .  .  .  No — none  whatever!"  Tbo  correction  was  a 
struggle  or  a  protest  against  the  cause  of  the  yawn.  She  went 
to  the  gas  bracket,  and  turned  the  tap  cautiously.  "  Rather 
more  please !  "  said  Mrs.  Carteret,  watching  the  patient.  The 
gaslight  went  up,  hissed  remonstrance,  and  was  checked.  "  Come 
here,"  she  continued,  "  and  look !  "  The  nurse  came,  and  looked. 
"  Yes,"  she  said,  "  I  see  what  you  mean."  It  was  a  change  in 
the  colour;  little  enough,  but  something! 

"  I  thought  so,"  said  Mrs.  Carteret.  ''  But  it  might  have  been 
mere  hope."  She  felt  as  if  a  great  lump  of  lead  had  been  sud- 
denly lifted  from  her  heart.  And  then  an  intense  impatience 
to  hear  the  girl's  dear  voice  again.  "  Will  it  be  long,  do  you 
think  ?  "  said  she. 

"Will  what?"  said  the  nurse.     "  Oli — you  mean  conscious- 
ness?    No — yes.   .    .    .   Well,  it  may  be  some  time." 
Do  you  means  hours,  or  days  ?  " 

Do  I  mean  .  .  .?  Oh — hours  or  days?"  But  this 
nurse's  testimony  was  worth  little  or  nothing.  She  was  break- 
ing down  fast  before  the  most  irresistible  of  logicians,  Sleep — 
him  against  whom  all  conclusions  may  be  tried  in  vain. 

Mrs.  Carteret  saw  what  was  the  matter,  and  went  straight  to 
the  point.     "You  have  been  awake  too  long,"  she  said. 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  179 

"  Only  thirty-six  hours,"  said  the  nurse. 

"  Exactly.  They  shouldn't  have  sent  you.  You're  not  the 
least  fit  for  night-worK." 

"  They  had  no  one  else  to  send.  I  should  not  have  come  only 
it  was  for  Dr.  Culpepper,  I  wasn't  the  least  sleepy  when  I 
started." 

Mrs.  Carteret  considered  the  position.  "  I  think,"  she  said, 
"the  best  thing  will  be  for  you  to  lie  down  and  go  to  sleep. 
I  could  not  sleep  if  I  tried,  and  I  can  wake  you  if  necessary." 
But  she  did  not  feel  very  confident  on  the  last  point. 

There  was  a  sofa  at  hand,  in  an  off-room ;  and  upon  it,  in  a 
very  few  minutes,  was  a  sleeper  to  all  appearance  beyond  the 
reach  of  any  rousing  power  less  decisive  than  that  of  the  hot 
iron  with  which  the  Oriental  keeps  his  victim  awake  till  he  dies 
raving  mad.  Mrs.  Carteret  left  her  without  any  anticipation  of 
needing  her  services,  and  returned  to  the  bedroom. 

The  figure  on  the  bed  had  not  moved.  The  hand  lay  on  the 
coverlid  where  she  had  seen  it  last.  But  before  turning  down 
the  gas  she  made  sure  of  that  returning  colour  in  the  face,  and 
the  fingers  she  took  in  hers  to  feel  for  a  revival  of  the  pulse 
were  warmer — or,  rather,  less  cold. 

As  for  the  pulse,  that  she  could  not  be  certain  about.  But 
finding  of  pulses  was  not  one  of  her  strong  points.  She  had  an 
inner  conviction  they  never  occurred  twice  in  the  same  place. 
But  she  fancied,  after  many  trials,  that  her  finger  was  conscious 
of  intervals,  though  it  would  have  been  absurd  to  say  that  they 
were  separated  by  beats.  Well — patience !  All  might  be  well, 
in  a  few  hours. 

There  v/as  no  fear  that  sleep  Avould  overcome  lier,  with  those 
dry  burning  eyes.  Besides,  she  seldom  slept  in  the  early  hours 
of  the  night  as  it  was,  and  was  in  no  want  of  sleep ;  had  over- 
slept last  night.  She  settled  down  on  an  easy-chair  close  to  the 
bed,  without  misgiving.  As  the  silence  grew  she  could  hear  the 
regular  breathing  of  that  unhappy  nurse,  whom  she  was  sin- 
cerely sorry  for.  It  was  much  better  to  have  acknowledged  the 
position,  as  she  had  done,  than  to  have  that  unhappy  woman 
struggling  all  night  against  a  fo?'ce  majeure. 

She  had  made  up  her  mind  by  now  that  Fred  had  gone  back 
to  his  chambers,  and  had  no  disposition  to  beg  and  borrow  a 
trouble  about  that  young  man.  The  fact  was,  he  was  always 
very  easy  about  his  comings  and  goings,  and  this  defection  of 
his  would  hardly  have  called  for  notice  at  another  time.  ]\Iore- 
over,  the  presence  of  her  young  friend  counted  as  a  set-ofE  or 


180  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

makeweight.  Fred  would  have  come  back  early  enough  for  a 
chat  before  retiring  had  he  not  known  she  was  not  alone.  This 
was  the  substance  of  the  excuse  she  concocted  to  cover  her  son's 
absence.  But  it  had  its  weak  points,  and  she  was  subconscious  of 
them.  Fred  ought  to  have  been  back;  there  was  no  doubt  of 
it. 

Is  one  alive,  ever,  to  more  than  one  pain,  or  bad  anxiety,  at 
a  time?  So  Mrs.  Carteret  asked  herself,  when  she  felt  the  old 
wound  return,  as  the  balm  of  revived  hope  began  to  operate  on 
the  new  one.  Nancy  would  be  all  right — or  was  she  only  catch- 
ing at  a  straw?  Anyhow,  she  had  to  live,  and  hope  she  must. 
in  self-defence !  But  the  black  cloud  came  back  and  back^  all 
the  worse  for  her  short  oblivion  of  it. 

Where  was  he,  this  brother  of  her  dead  husband — this  man 
who  through  a  lifetime,  or  the  most  of  it,  had  been  her  first 
refuge,  and  his,  in  all  the  cross-currents  of  life;  whose  pilotage 
had  always  been  at  hand  in  unsafe  water?  Had  she  paid  him 
his  due  of  love,  or  even  reverence,  in  all  these  years  of  his  help- 
fulness ;  accepted  as  of  right,  sometimes  even  with  a  trace  of 
resentment  against  his  prepotent  exaction  of  deference  to  his 
opinion?  Her  thought  of  him  fell  short  df  taking  form,  but 
might  have  become : — "  Dear,  dear  old  Dru ! — how  overbearing 
you  were!  What  a  drill-sergeant!  What  an  Amurath, 
almost !  "  But  only  the  first  phrase  stirred  in  her  mind.  For, 
where  was  he  now  ? 

Her  thought  had  to  rush  up  its  reserves,  to  stand  against 
despair.  And  the  chief  one  was  a  sort  of  mechanical  derision 
of  herself,  for  taking  the  worst  for  granted;  partly  of  herself  at 
least,  at  the  bidding  of  a  distempered  fancy — an  unwholesome 
nightmare  of  the  small  hours,  and  a  memory  of  it  in  the  healthier 
daylight.  It  would  be  no  miracle,  if  he  walked  into  this  house 
to-morrow,  denouncing  the  fatuity  which  had  ended  in  that  fool's 
paragraph  in  the  newspaper.  As  if  he  did  not  know  how  to  take 
care  of  himself!  She  could  almost  hear  the  words  he  would  be 
sure  to  use,  and  the  tones  of  that  familiar  voice. 

But  .  .  .  where  teas  he,  now?  That  terrible  image  of  a 
hidden  victim  of  murder  would  force  itself  before  her;  or  rather, 
would  force  itself  into  the  image  of  a  railway  line  that  stretched 
from  her  consciousness  of  Wimbledon  or  her  consciousness  of 
Exeter — she  had  never  been  free  from  either — with  an  ill- 
searched  margin  on  either  side.  And  then  again  she  found  her- 
self in  revolt  against  this  incorrigible  pessimism,  to  again  allow 
her  indignation  against  herself  to  collapse,  and  be  renewed  for 


TPIE  OLD  MADHOUSE  181 

a  new  nightmare  after  a  brief  spell  of  resolution.  She  said  to 
herself  again  and  again  that  all  this  wear  and  tear  of  the  soul 
was  needless;  would  be  mere  food  for  regret  in  the  future  if 
all  turned  out  well  in  the  end,  as  might  be — yes,  as  might  be! 
Why  be  blind  to  the  possibility  of  good? 

After  all,  that  wild  surmise  of  Fred's  might  have  something 
in  it.  It  would  not  be  the  first  extravagant  theory  that  had 
turned  out  sane.     She  took  it  up  for  serious  examination. 

All  that  first  condemnation  of  it  had  been  on  the  score  of  its 
improbability,  not  impossibility.  It  was  not  impossible  that  he 
could  treasure,  in  his  secret  heart,  a  love  he  had  never  confessed, 
even  though  his  rival  were  dead  and  gone,  for  any  term  of  years. 
\\liy  not  ?  She  could  fancy  a  hundred  motives  that  might  work 
upon  a  nature  like  his,  that,  for  all  the  roughness  of  its  outer 
shell,  was  chivalry  itself  at  the  core.  Who  could  say  that  mere 
reverence  for  a  possibility  in  this  lady's  mind — the  possibility 
of  a  disbelief  in  any  but  physical  death,  except  indeed  for  the 
man  who  destroys  his  own  soul— might  not  influence  him  to  keep 
silence?  If  he  said  to  himself: — "  How  can  I,  who  am  officially 
bound  to  condemn  materialism,  ask  to  enter  the  temple  sacred  to 
no  m.ere  memory,  but  to  belief  in  present  survival  beyond  the 
tomb?"  If  he  said  this,  and  acted  on  it  or  disallowed  action 
on  it,  would  it  have  been  anything  one  would  not  have  foretold 
of  a  man  of  his  antecedents?  Surely  too,  if,  as  was  likely,  he 
took  her  mother  completely  into  his  confidence  on  this  point,  it 
was  one  that  would  have  warranted  her  emphatic  rejection  of 
every  effort  towards  a  resuscitation  of  his  dream  of  former  years. 
Otherwise  what  could  justify  her  statement,  almost  angry  in  its 
positiveness,  that  the  thing  was  impossible — absolutely  impos- 
sible? So  far  from  being  a  refutation  of  this  thing,  the  fact  that 
her  mother  had  spoken  thus  was  a  confirmation  of  it.  Her 
emphasis  only  showed  how  completely  she  had  understood  his 
feelings  and  been  in  his  confidence. 

Then  supposing  this  view  of  his  prolonged  silence  accepted, 
where  was  the  difficulty  of  accounting  for  his  possible  disclosure 
of  his  old  passion  in  the  end?  Consider  the  difference  that 
would  have  been  made  by  half  a  word,  half  a  hint,  from  the 
lady  herself!  And  as  for  the  inexplicable  privacy  of  the  step 
he  had  taken,  whatever  it  was,  would  he  be  his  own  master? 
Would  he  not  have  to  consult  his  confederate  in  everything? 
Certainly,  her  wish  for  secrecy  would  be  odd,  and  she  would  be 
an  odd  woman.  But  why  should  she  not  be  an  odd  woman? 
Some  singular  thing  was  wanted,  to  account  for  the  facts.     AVhy 


182  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

not  an  eccentric  desire  for  a  private  wedding  on  the  part  of  a 
lady  absolutely  unknown?  Besides,  what  was  there  to  show  that 
a  letter  had  not  miscarried? 

She  went  on  to  construct  a  meshwork  of  imaginary  circum- 
stances that  would  account  for  everything,  beginning  at  the 
moment  when  he  caught  his  train  at  Wimbledon.  There  was 
no  strain  on  probability  in  supposing  that  he  met  the  lady  by  the 
way.  She  might  be  travelling  in  the  same  carriage,  but  dra- 
matic contexts  would  have  to  be  devised  to  make  such  a  meeting 
serve  the  end  in  view,  that  of  a  prolonged  interview,  leading  to 
a  revival  of  an  old  cordial  acquaintance.  A  much  more  probable 
contingency  would  be,  for  instance,  that  he  sliould  recognise  her 
on  the  platform  of  a  side  station,  seeing  a  friend  off.  Then  that 
an  occurrence  should  ensue  such  as  we  have  almost  all  known 
to  happen,  if  it  has  not  happened  to  ourselves.  He  left  the 
train  heedlessly,  moved  by  an  irresistible  impulse  to  speak  with 
her  on  the  platform,  and  perhaps,  over-confident  that  the  guard 
would  give  him  time,  come  what  might,  to  resume  his  place  be-, 
fore  starting.  She  could  imagine  the  "  Jump  in  there — just 
off ! "  of  the  guard,  and  his  run  after  his  own  brake ;  his 
hanging  on  its  step  long  enough  to  see  the  big  clerical  gentleman 
fail  to  reach  his  carriage ;  his  "  Very  sorry.  Sir — couldn't  wait !  " 
to  the  latter  as  he  swept  past  him  at  too  great  a  speed  to  risk 
inviting  him  in — a  younger  man  would  have  been  different — and 
in  the  end  the  humiliating  confession  that  that  was  the  very  last 
train;  and  he  would  have  to  go  to  an  hotel.  Does  not  all  this 
happen  every  day? 

She  found  the  possible  lady,  in  some  side  locker  of  Fancy, 
and  brought  her  out  to  act  her  part.  An  interesting  looking 
woman  in  deep  widow's  weeds — Heaven  knows  why,  as  her 
widowhood  was  come  of  age  by  hypothesis ! — and  preferably  an 
appearance  of  having  suffered  much.  Such  a  one  could  fairly 
scout  the  idea  of  the  hotel,  and  invite  Dr.  Carteret  to  take 
advantage  of  her  hospitality ;  that  was  her  brougham,  and  it 
was  less  than  half  an  hour's  drive ;  he  could  go  on  to  Exeter  by 
the  ten-thirty  in  the  niorning,  and  really  lose  very  little  time. 
.  .  .  Well — yes !  On  the  whole  a  grown-up  daughter  would  be 
desirable,  and  would  cost  nothing. 

Mrs.  Carteret's  imagination  provided  a  chubby  one,  just  out 
of  her  teens,  who  had  often  heard  mamma  say  she  knew  Dr. 
Carteret  years  ago.    .    .    .    And  so  on. 

The  moment  she  saw  a  possible  denoiiement  ahead,  she  was 
contented  to  leave  events  to  develop  themselves.     All  she  wanted 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  183 

this  fiction  for  was  to  fortify,  as  an  example,  her  belief  that  other 
possibilities  existed,  any  one  of  which  might  lie  at  the  root  of 
the  mystery.  She  took  kindly  to  it  in  itself  too.  Such  a  sweet 
St.  Luke's  summer  of  happiness  for  the  old  boy  himself  after  a 
life  so  cruelly  frustrated.  But  the  principle  point  was  that  it 
was  absurd  to  give  up  hope,  when  so  many  ways  of  evading 
despair  were  open  to  imagination. 

What  a  strange  thing  it  was— the  story  is  still  following  Mrs. 
Carteret's  thoughts — that  in  those  early  days,  which  she  could 
still  remember  well,  when  she  and  her  dear  dead  husband,  little 
more  than  a  bo}^  were  revelling  in  their  early  dream  of  love,  and 
caring  not  a  straw  how  others  lived  and  died,  this  young  divine, 
her  destined  brother-in-law,  should  be  hiding  a  grievous  sorrow 
at  heart  from  all  the  world !  WHiy — she  could  remember  him, 
rather,  as  uniformly  cheerful;  his  future  self  concealed,  one 
might  have  said,  in  the  mere  strength  and  freshness  of  his 
youth.  For  though  family  jests  nicknamed  him  the  inflexible 
One,  and  Ehadamanthus,  those  who  coined  them  never  knew 
their  truth.  Even  her  husband  never  saw  his  brother  as  the 
man  that  he  became.  She  could  not  say  to  herself  that  he  would 
not  have  recognised  him  ten  years  later,  but  he  certainly  would 
have  been  surprised  at  the  change. 

When  did  it  begin?  It  must  have  been  about  that  time;  the 
time,  that  is,  of  those  terrible  days  that  changed  her  life  and 
left  it  lonesome.  Or,  it  may  bo,  rather  later.  It  is  impossible  to 
recall  the  successive  phases  of  a  change  of  character.  All  she 
could  be  sure  of  was  that  the  brother-in-law  she  remembered  in 
her  husband's  lifetime  had  become  a  different  man  a  few  years 
after  his  death.  She  could  remember  her  mother  noticing  this 
change,  and  speaking  of  it. 

However  confident  one  may  oe  of  one's  power  to  keep  awake, 
it  will  be  put  through  a  severe  trial  by  circumstances  such  as 
those  which  surrounded  Mrs.  Carteret  at  this  small  hour  of  the 
morning,  one  which  in  itself  makes  vigilance  almost  impossible. 
That  heavy  breathing  in  the  next  room,  with  its  constant  new 
resolutions  towards  some  still  lower  depth  of  consciousness,  was 
her  worst  enemy.  What  watcher  has  not  felt  the  malign  in- 
fluence of  example  ?  But  for  that  ineffectual  nurse,  she  was  sure 
she  never  would  have  closed  an  eye,  and  indeed  was  inclined  to 
resent  the  idea  she  had.  But  then,  you  cannot  wake  with  a 
start,  and  say: — "What? — Who  spoke?"  unless  you  have  been 
asleep.     Moreover,  the  eldest  Miss  Bagster  Sutcliffe  was  not  in 


184  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

the  room  two  minutes  ago.  She  would  have  been  a  dream,  even 
if  she  had  not  been  smoking. 

But  who  was  it  that  spoke?  That  must  have  been  part  of  the 
dream.  Because  though  the  gas,  turned  up,  showed  on  the  face 
of  the  insensible  girl  on  the  bed  more  colour  than  three  hours 
ago,  she  remained  motionless.  Surely  such  a  glare  would  have 
been  enough  to  rouse  her.  However,  there  could  be  no  reason- 
able doubt  of  the  meaning  of  the  colour.     It  was  a  good  omen. 

It  made  the  watcher's  mind  happier.  She  went  back  to  her 
chair  to  decide  at  leisure  what  attitude  she  ought  to  take  up 
about  the  nurse,  who  had  not  come  here  simply  to  sleep,  after  all. 
But  wliat  a  sleep  to  spoil !     Listen  to  it. 

Suppose  she  gave  her  till  four  o'clock !  The  woman  had  a 
right  to  be  called,  clearly.  It  might  be  Samaritan  to  let  her 
have  her  sleep  out,  but  it  wasn't  business.  She  herself  would 
be  the  first  to  ask  why  she  was  not  roused.  So  be  it — at  four 
o'clock. 

Mrs.  Carteret  felt  like  Fate,  sitting  there  watching  the  long 
hand  of  the  clock  on  the  chimney-piece.  Unlike  Fate,  she  had 
misgivings  more  than  once  that  the  hand  had  stopped.  It 
always  hung  fire,  surely,  at  each  five  minutes'  end,  and  seemed 
reluctant  to  cross  the  open.  But  then,  it  made  a  rush.  She  felt 
that  this  illusion — for  it  could  be  nothing  else — had  a  kind  of 
lanjniid  interest  for  her.  .  .  .  There  now ! — in  five  minutes 
more,  the  nurse ! 

There  was  a  fire  in  the  grate,  lighted  at  the  request  of  the 
young  doctor  when  the  room  was  first  settled  on,  but  never  much 
encouraged,  since  the  weather  was  getting  warmer.  It  would 
not  do  to  let  it  out  now,  in  the  coldest  part  of  the  night,  ilrs. 
Carteret  rescued  it  from  extinction,  but  in  doing  so  made  a  noise 
with  the  fire-shovel  which  clashed  with  some  other  sound,  and 
spoiled  her  hearing  of  it. 

She  paused,  shovel  in  hand,  and  spoke  through  the  open  door 
to  the  nurse : — "  Yes — I  was  just  coming  to  wake  you.  It's 
four  o'clock." 

But  it  was  not  the  nurse,  it  was  the  patient.  Mrs.  Carteret, 
uncertain  which,  for  the  moment,  relinquished  the  fire-shovel 
with  a  noiseless  caution,  and  listened. 

A  moment  after  she  was  at  the  bedside,  trying  to  catch  speech 
barely  articulate,  and  repeating  it  for  the  speaker  to  confirm 
or  contradict  her  hearing  of  it.  "  Yes,  dear  child,  '  the  man  in 
the  cart  with  one  eye  ' — yes  !^'  on  the  wrong  side  ' — of  course 
he  was!     'We  shall  catch  him  if  we're  sharp  about  it?'   .    .    . 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  185 

Oh,  you  poor  dear  darling  girl — just  fancy!  Why — it  all  hap- 
pened hours  ago!  .  .  .  What  happened?  Why,  you  were 
thrown  off  your  bike  and  rery  nearly  killed,  and  brought  back 
here  five  hours  ago." 

"  I  thought  it  was  five  minutes.  \Vliere  is  '  here  '?  1  thousfht 
I  was  at  home."  For,  as  is  commonly  the  case,  the  hours  of 
insensibility  had  been  a  blank. 

" '  Here '  is  Maida  Vale,  and  I  am  Mrs.  Carteret^-Fred's 
mother,  you  know."  A  misgiving  crossed  her  mind  that  she 
herself  had  been  forgotten.     She  had  heard  of  such  cases. 

"  I  know.  We  were  talking  here  a  few  minutes  ago.  Only 
I  don't  see  the  use  of  trying  to  open  my  eyes.  Don't  believe  I 
could.  Oh  dear!  I'm  all  head  and  such  a  weisrht.  ...  I 
say — would  you  look  and  see  if  my  watch  is  going.  On  my 
wrist." 

"  They've  taken  it  off,  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Carteret,  feeling  the 
wrist.     For  the  low  gaslight  showed  scarcely  anything. 

"  Do  please  find  it,  and  make  sure.  .  .  .  Oh  dear,  what  a  lot 
of  trouble  I  am  giving !  " 

"  Never  mind.     Give  more." 

"  All  right.  I  say — I  want  something  cool,  to  drink.  Only 
I'm  not  sure  I  can  sit  up  to  drink  it.  Perhaps  my  head  won't 
come  up  off  the  pillow." 

"  Don't  try — stupid  girl !  I've  got  something."  So  slie  had, 
an  invalid's  feeding-bottle  with  an  elastic  tube.  "  I  can  give  you 
nothing  better  than  cold  tea,"  said  she. 

The  tea  was  a  bit  of  forethought  of  the  cook's  and  turned  out 
luckily.  Nancy  seemed  to  appreciate  it,  and  said  it  felt  like 
being  in  a  perambulator. 

But  the  hand  that  Mrs.  Carteret  had  explored  for  the  watch 
had  felt  quite  hot,  to  her  surprise,  so  recently  had  it  been  quite 
cold,  and  a  riotous  pulse  liad  insisted  on  being  taken  notice  of 
in  the  wrist  as  she  touched  it.  Fever  has  ungoverned  impulses. 
She  turned  up  the  gas  for  a  moment  and  was  startled  at  the 
flush  that  had  come  suddenly.  She  must  wake  the  nurse  now; 
she  was  not  familiar  enough  with  this  sort  of  thing  not  to  be 
alarmed  by  it. 

But  she  hesitated,  because  how  was  she  to  account  for  the 
nurse?  Would  it  not  be  better  to  pause  at  least  until  she  saw 
her  way  plainer?  If  the  nurse  had  not  had  a  professional 
manner,  and  a  costume,  she  could  have  palmed  her  off  as — 
as  what?  Well,  as  somebody  else.  But  no  veil  could  be  thrown 
over  that  identity.     She  must  wait  until  the  patient  slept:  or 


186  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

the  nurse  woke  spontaneously,  for  that  might  give,  a  chance  of 
consultation.  Even  then,  tact  would  be  needed  to  save  the 
situation.     Had  that  nurse  any?     Has  any  nurse  any? 

As  she  wavered  Nancy  spoke.  "  Mrs.  Carteret  dear ! "  said 
she.  "  I  want  you  to  go  to  bed.  It's  perfectly  ridiculous  your 
stopping  up.  I  shall  bo  all  right.  Talking  hurts  my  head  a 
little,  but  it's  all  right  when  I  don't  talk.  Do  go  to 
bed." 

Mrs.  Carteret  turned  the  gas  up  again,  and  to  her  thinking 
the  colour  in  the  face  was  less.  Had  she  fancied  it,  or  was  this 
a  natural  change  under  the  circumstances?  She  took  the  hand 
again,  and  it  seemed  less  hot,  and  the  pulse  quieter.  Yes — that 
was  what  it  was !  Excited  imagination  on  her  part.  Was  it 
strange  that  it  should  be  so,  after  all  the  tension  of  the  last  few 
weeks  ? 

''  Look  here,  jSTancy  dear,"  said  she.  "  I'll  tell  you  what  I'll 
do.  I'll  just  sit  here  till  I  think  you're  asleep  again,  and  then 
I'll  go  to  bed  and  send  one  of  them  to  be  handy  if  you  want 
anything.     There  now!     Won't  that  do?  " 

"  Yes — if  you  promise.  Honest  Injun  and  no  cheating !  " 
Whereupon  ^Irs.  Carteret  turned  down  the  gas  and  resumed  her 
armchair  by  the  fire. 

But  she  was  not  on  her  guard  against  one  contingency  of  her 
position.  A  state  of  anxious  tension  like  hers  may  make  its 
subject  venomously  sleepless,  but  if  one  cause  of  that  tension  is 
removed  reaction  may  set  in.  It  did  in  her  case,  and  even  while 
she  was  listening  to  hear  the  regular  breath  of  sleep  from  the 
patient,  an  insidious  drowsiness  was  upon  her,  which  took  no 
notice  of  her  intention  to  ignore  it  in  a  minute  or  two,  and 
wafted  her  would-be-watchful  senses  into  a  dreamland. 

Some  believe  that  the  soundest  sleeper  may  be  awakened  by 
the  announcement,  even  in  a  whisper,  of  some  news  vital  to 
himself  whether  it  be  very  good  or  very  bad,  however  little  he 
may  grasp  its  meaning.  If  this  belief  is  well  grounded,  it  may 
account  for  the  fact  that  an  hour  later — earlier  than  one  might 
have  anticipated — Mrs.  Carteret  woke  with  a  start,  to  catch 
Avords  spoken  by  the  patient;  dream-speech  certainly,  but  clear 
and  unmistakable  in  the  morning  silence  for  all  that.  They 
came  as  the  end  of  a  sentence. 

"...  And  all  the  while  she  was  the  girl  herself !  "  Wliat 
could  that  mean?  Mrs.  Carteret  was  quite  unconscious  of  any 
feeling  but  bare  curiosity.  The  words  must  be  connected  with 
something  actual,  yesterday  or  earlier.     Who  was  the  girl?     Not 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  187 

the  youngest  Miss  Bagster  Sutcliffe,  surely?  Certainly  not  one 
of  the  elder  ones.  The  name  "  girl "  sat  awkwardly  on 
either. 

There  was  the  feverish  voice  again,  not  so  articulate  this  time. 
A  sound  of  earnest  reasoning  in  it — remonstrance  with  someone, 
for  incredulity !  "  You  wouldn't  say  '  stuff  '  if  you  knew.  .  .  . 
Never  was  more  sure  of  anything  in  my  life !  .  .  .  Stupid !  " 
Mrs.  Carteret  felt  that  the  dream-talk  was  to  a  sister,  from  the 
manner  of  it.  Sisters  talk  like  this  to  one  another.  But  why 
Cintra,  the  only  possible  sister  in  this  case,  should  be  denounced 
as  stupid  she  could  not  guess.  At  this  moment  nothing  was 
further  from  her  mind  than  the  fact  that  she  herself  was  the 
girl  referred  to. 

Nor  might  she  ever  have  been  any  the  wiser  if  Nancy's  feverish 
utterances  had  stopped  there ;  for  nothing,  so  far,  connected  them 
with  herself.  It  was  when,  after  incohorencies  too  disconnected 
to  tempt  interpretation,  the  sleeper  said  with  startling  distinct- 
ness : — "  Her  brother-in-law.  Goosey !  How  could  he  ?  "  that 
the  light  began  to  break  in  upon  her.  Even  then,  the  effect  of 
the  first  gleam  was  only  to  make  lier  aware  that  some  wild 
speculation  was  afoot  in  her  young  friend's  mind,  connecting  the 
vanished  man  with  her  own  life  in  a  perfectly  absurd  and  un- 
justifiable way. 

Now,  when  this  dear  foolish  bicyclist  was  up  and  well  again, 
as  she  would  be — yes,  that  was  good ! — would  it  be  possible  to 
repeat  this  nonsense  to  her  and  try  for  an  explanation  of  it? 
Then  she  remembered  how  Nancy  had  begged  off  giving  any 
particulars  of  the  idea  that  wasn't  a  coal.  She  would  do  the 
same  thing  next  time. 

Hush ! — there  she  was  talking  again.  "  Hush  "  meant :  "  Stop 
speculating  and  listen !  "  Mrs.  Carteret  did  as  she  was  bid — by 
some  inner  consciousness. 

It  was  very  difficult  to  make  out,  this !  Who  was  it  that  was 
a  widow  herself,  ihe7i,  with  such  a  stress  upon  the  the?i?  Was 
it  her  own  self,  or  was  it  that  of  the  interesting  widow  whom 
inner  consciousness  suddenly  dubbed  "  the  railway-station  lady," 
hefore  it  had  time  to  intercept  and  untJiinJc  her?  Never  mind! 
She  would  do  as  well  as  another  to  hang  thought  on ;  a  kind  of 
jury  widow,  so  to  speak,  for  imagination  to  sail  under.  Mrs. 
Carteret  listened  on,  in  hopes  of  hearing  more,  but  speech  became 
mere  wandering,  and  she  lost  clue  of  any  meaning.  It  seemed 
as  if  that  soothing  draught  was  acting  up  to  its  name,  for  the 
confused  dream-speech  fled  before  it,  and  the  patient  slept.    Very 


188  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

soon  the  nurse  might  be  summoned.     But  a  few  minutes  more 
would  be  on  the  safe  side. 

Who  was  "a  widow  herself,"  and  when  was  "then"?  She 
was  very  hazy  about  anything  in  the  past  few  hours.  But  she 
did  recollect  that  when  she  identified  the  moment  of  the  coal, 
but  a  short  while  since,  she  had  dismissed  the  connection  of 
Nancy's  idea,  that  wasn't  the  coal,  with  her  own  thought  at  that 
moment,  as  untenable  and  absurd.  Was  it  absurd?  Here  was 
the  child  talking  about  her  brother-in-law ! 

Then  an  uneasy  feeling  crossed  her  mind  and  grew,  that  she 
would  rather  not  know  this  idea  of  Nancy's.  Unless  indeed  she 
could  be  sure  that  the  widow  referred  to  was  the  railway  station 
lady,  or  her  mother^that  was  a  possibility?  ...  or  indeed 
anyone  except  herself !  It  if  was  she  that  was  the  widow  herself, 
her  mind  flinched  from  any  further  knowledge  of  Nancy's  specu- 
lations, and  courted  ignorance.  But  ignorance,  with  a  constant 
itching  to  find  out  its  subject,  w^as  one  thorn  more  to  vex  her 
mind.  IndifEerence  to  the  unknown  is  a  sine  qua  non  to  the  real 
article. 

Fear  to  look  in  the  face  a  fact  that  one  half-knows  is  lurking 
round  the  corner  is  unendurable  for  any  length  of  time.  One 
must  see  it,  and  make  the  worst  or  the  best  of  it,  as  may  be. 
After  a  short  period  of  flinching,  Mrs.  Carteret  saw  that  what 
she  suspected  might  come  to  nothing  on  examination,  but  would 
remain  at  its  worst  half-known.  At  least,  she  must  revise  the 
position  and  find  out  what  had  set  the  girl's  mind  on  these 
imaginings. 

It  had  begun  by  Nancy's  asking  her  about  that  early  love- 
affair  of  Dr.  Carteret's  and  Fred's  theories  about  it.  She  had 
thought  it  better  that  Nancy  should  not  rely  solely  on  her  sister's 
transfer  of  Fred's  version  of  it,  and  had  then  told  the  story,  aa 
she  knew  it.     After  all,  what  was  there  to  conceal?     Nothing. 

Further,  she  remembered  that  she  had  given  a  short  shrift  to 
Fred's  imaginings  of  a  reappearance  of  this  lady,  and  a  revival 
of  Dr.  Carteret's  aspirations.  But  she  was  a  little  inclined  to 
blame  herself  for  having  given  rein  to  reminiscence,  beyond  the 
needs  of  the  occasion,  in  the  presence  of  this  young  lass,  who, 
strongly  as  she  was  drawn  towards  her  by  affection,  might  not  be 
discretion  itself.  She  recollected  repeating  aloud,  for  her  own 
benefit  more  than  for  Nancy's,  her  mother's  exact  words  about 
this  attachment ;  and  especially  that  last  enigmatical  saying  of 
hers : — "  It  would  have  been  all  right  before  her  marriage.  Now 
it  would  be  impossible.   ..." 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  183 

Yes — and  it  was  at  that  very  moment  the  girl  gave  such  a 
start  and  she  thought  it  was  the  coal.  She  remembered  the 
explosiveness  of  that  coal,  and  the  look  of  some  new  insight  on 
that  candid  face  which  betrayed  the  owner's  ever}'  thought.  It 
was  then  that  this  new  idea  took  possession  of  her  mind,  and 
what  provoked  it  had  been  those  curious  words  of  her  mother's, 
which  she  indeed  had  all  these  years  set  down  as  a  miscarriage 
of  speech  due  to  paralysis. 

And  the  outcome  of  it  was  summed  up  in  the  feverish 
ramblings  she  had  just  heard.  "  She  was  a  widow  herself  then,'^ 
and,  "Her  brother-in-law.  Goosey!  How  could  he?"  She  saw 
jS'ancy's  "  idea  "  now,  plainly.  And  she  saAv  why  the  young  lady 
had  cried  oft'  confession  of  it. 

No  wonder  she  had  done  so !  Hov/  look  an  older  vv'oman  in 
the  face  and  say : — "  I  see  now  that  this  man,  whom  you  sup- 
pose murdered,  had  loved  you  all  his  life;  had  kept  silence  not 
to  cross  his  younger  brother's  liappiness,  and  had  accepted — with 
v-'hat  pain  who  knows? — the  inevitable  position  of  legal  consan- 
guinity at  his  brother's  death"?  No  groat  wonder,  too,  that  she 
should  have  jumped  at  this  false  construction  of  facts,  seeing 
the  way  in  which  they  had  been  presented  to  her ! 

False  construction,  of  course.  Who  should  know  better  than 
she?  Was  it  credible  that  the  grave  elder  brother — who  was  a 
man,  mind  you,  while  she  was  a  child! — was  enshrining  her  in 
his  heart  of  hearts,  to  the  exclusion  of  every  other  tenant,  while 
she  and  his  irresponsible  junior  were  indulging  in  unmitigated 
romping — for  in  their  case  love  surprised  a  mere  schoolboy  and 
schoolgirl — and  preparing  for  himself  a  lonely  future  in  the  most 
painful  of  circumstances ;  thirst  near  the  ripple  of  a  forbidden 
spring,  starvation  in  the  very  land  of  plenty?  Perfectly  in- 
credible !  She  would  have  found  it  out,  of  course.  And  she 
never  so  much  as  suspected  it. 

False  construction,  of  course !  But  excusable  in  a  bystander 
who  had  got  the  story  scrapwise.  Mrs.  Carteret  promised  her- 
self that  she  would  tell  Nancy,  who  would  be  all  right  again 
very  soon — she  was  sure  of  that — plenty  of  things  that  would 
show  her  the  absurdity  of  her  idea,  without  raking  up  the  whole 
story  again.     Now,  she  must  go  and  wake  that  sleepy  nurse. 


13 


CHAPTEE  XIII 

At  Lyndhurst,  where  there  was  a  puzzle-monkey,  a  minute 
down  the  road  from  The  Jessamines,  dwelt  a  retired  army  officer, 
Captain  Maefarren,  whose  name  so  closely  resembled  Professor 
Eraser's  in  the  eyes  of  the  post  that  each  frequently  received 
the  other's  parcels  and  letters.  When  this  happened  of  a  Sat- 
urday night,  Macfarren's,  being  of  an  obliging  disposition,  did 
not  wait  for  the  postman  on  jNIonday,  but  just  sent  round  a 
young  man  they  harboured,  with  the  letter  or  parcel,  and  Captain 
Macfarren's  compliments.  On  this  particular  Sunday  this  young 
man  was  instructed  to  carry  a  wandering  parcel  to  The  Jessa- 
mines, and  ought  to  have  done  so  in  the  morning.  But  he 
forgot  all  about  it  till  the  evening,  and  that  is  why,  at  nearly 
eleven  o'clock,  he  was  conversing  with  the  3'oung  lady  at  the  door 
she  opened  to  Fred  early  in  the  day.  Their  talk  turned  on  the 
voices  audible  in  the  parlour  near  at  hand. 

What  the  young  man  said  was : — "  'Ouse'old's  a  keepin'  of  its 
temper  to-night,  to  jedge  by  the  sound."  To  which  the  young 
lady  replied,  following  the  slight  indication  of  his  glance: — 
"  That's  our  youngest,  and  the  young  gentleman  she's  engaged  to 
be  married  to.  She'll  keep  him  in  order,  I  lay."  So  the  young 
man's  remark  had  been  sarcastic,  as  also  was  his  comment: — 
"  Wife  of  his  buzzim — that  sort  of  thing !  "  Then  he,  very  im- 
pertinently as  the  story  thinks,  gave  a  personal  turn  to  the 
conversation.  "  A  'ansum  gal  like  you,"  said  he,  "  wouldn't  go 
on  like  that.  Ketch  you  at  it ! !  Nor  you  shouldn't  set  on  my 
knee,  if  you  did."  The  young  lady  did  not  seem  mortally  of- 
fended, saying  in  reproof  merely : — "  I  shan't  ask  to  be  took,  not 
if  it's  you!"  They  parted  with  equanimity,  and  the  young  lady 
placed  the  parcel  on  the  hall  table  where  you  couldn't  easy  miss 
it;  and,  finding  she  couldn't  make  out  what  the  dissension  was 
about,  owing  to  the  thickness  of  the  door,  vanished  into  the 
basement. 

Had  she  remained  within  hearing,  and  the  speakers  been 
unaware  of  her,  she  would  have  heard,  through  the  door,  half 
ajar  for  someone  to  come  out,  that  her  young  mistress  within 
said : — "  Yes — that  is  what  I  wish.  Good-bye !  "  And  she 
would  have  heard  that  Cintra  meant  what  she  said. 

190 


)} 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  191 

Fred  was  not  sure  about  her  real  meaning.  This  was  not  their 
first  lovers'  tiff.  She  would  recant  again,  as  she  had  done  before 
So  he  half  said  to  himself,  as  he  paused  at  the  door.  "  Cintra ! 
said  he,  appeaiingly.  "  Think  of  the  meaning  of  what  you  say ! 
Is  it  all  to  be  at  an  end  between  us  ?  " 

"Yes I"  She  made  this  affirmative  harsh  with  emphasis,  be- 
yond the  needs  of  its  meaning. 

"And  for  such  a  cause?"  He  closed  the  door  as  he  said 
this,  as  though  to  shut  in  the  conversation. 

"  Are  you  sure  you  know  the  cause  ?  "  This  was  spoken  coldly 
— icily. 

"  I  think  I  do.     At  least — it  has  to  do  with  that  house." 

"  It  has  nothing  to  do  with  the  house.  I  should  have  said 
exactly  the  same  of  any  other  house,  if   .    .    .   if   ..." 

"  If  there  had  been  a  proposal  to  share  it  with  Charley  Snaith 
and  his  wife?  " 

'*'  jS^ot  with  Mr.  Snaith  and  his  wife !  With  Miss  Lucy  Hinch- 
lifEe  and  her  husband !  ]\Ir.  Snaith  indeed !  As  if  Mr.  Snaith 
could  make  any  difference  !  " 

"Why  should  Lucy  Hinchliffe  make  a  difference?"  A  hesi- 
tating question. 

"  Ask  yourself  that !  "  was  the  unhesitating  answer.  "  You 
know  why,  better  than  I  do." 

"  Oh,  Cintra — how  can  you  be  so  unreasonable !  Have  I  not 
told  you  how  utterly  groundless   ..." 

"  No — you  haven't !  "  This  was  unfortunately  true.  On  the 
other  hand,  the  young  lady  could  scarcely  lay  claim  to  having 
formulated  any  definate  accusation  against  her  lover.  How  could 
she  have  done  so,  when  there  was  nothing  to  lay  hold  of?  Has 
not  this  been,  so  in  many  another  action  in  the  Court  of  Love? 
The  gravamen  of  the  indictment  has  been  indisputable,  but  it 
has  taken  the  skill  of  Shakespeare  or  Browning  to  frame  it. 

Fred  knew  he  was  technically  guiltless,  even  of  a  confessed 
sensibilit3^  But  he  had  given  away  his  case  by  alleging  a  plea 
of  not  guilty  to  an  accusation  he  had  never  heard  the  terms  of. 
What  but  consciousness  of  a  crime  could  prompt  a  knowledge  of 
its  particulars?  We  all  remember,  in  youth,  the  overpowering 
force  of  a  reproachful  finger  and  condemnatory  headshake? 
And  the  frequent  gross  injustice  of  both  ?  But  the  worst  of  it 
was,  in  this  case,  that  the  injustice  was  not  vital  enough  to  satisfy 
a  culprit  so  truthful  as  Fred.  He  knew  that  the  items  of  Miss 
Hincldiffe,  that  have  been  referred  to  ante,  had  at  least  borne 
favourable  comparison — suppose  we  say — with  those  dissimilar 


192  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

ones  of  his  legitimate  lady-love,  which  were  now,  to  say  the  truth, 
at  their  best  when  anger  was  evoking  a  flash  from  eyes  which 
bore  no  comparison  with  the  lustrous  orbs  stocked  by  her  bete- 
noire.  It  was  a  thorn  in  the  side  of  Fred's  inner  conscience 
that  his  admiration  of  Cintra  in  a  rage  took  this  analogy,  of  all 
others,  in  his  acknowledgment  of  it. 

Had  he  been  ready  with  a  convincing  protest  of  undivided 
passion,  Cintra  would  have  met  it  with  a  torrent  of  tears  and 
contrition  for  her  unreasonable  jealousy.  What  girl  would  not? 
But  this  intrusion  of  Lucy  Hinchliffe's  insidious  image,  even 
though  plausibly  found  wanting  in  the  balance,  was  always  vivid 
enough  to  constitute  a  stumbling-block  in  the  path  of  the  impulse 
that  would  have  made  for  reconciliation.  It  alwa3's  insinuated 
itself,  but  never  lost  by  comparison.  It  is  scarcely  an  exaggera- 
tion to  say  that  he  would  have  felt  glad  had  it  done  so.  At  least, 
it  would  have  been  a  relief.  He  did  not  at  all  relish  his  own  half- 
heartedness,  and  sincerely  wanted  Cintra  to  be  peerless  in  his 
eyes,  as  indeed  she  was  till  a  fortnight  since.  ,  He  had  a  feeling 
like  gratitude  towards  her  for  that  flash  of  anger  just  now,  which 
— the  Critic  of  Beauty  would  have  said — brought  out  her  good 
points.     She  was  helping  him  against  himself. 

If  he  had  been  wise  he  would  have  met  her  interruption  by 
saying  bluntly: — "You  are  jealous  of  Charley's  fiancee,  and  1 
have  given  you  no  cause  for  jealousy."  Whether  exactly  true  or 
not.  it  would  have  dispersed  the  ambiguity  of  their  talk.  In- 
stead of  doing  so  he  made  the  ambiguity  permanent  by  saying: — 
"  They  are  utterly  groundless  " — and  sanctioned  their  adoption 
as  a  text  of  conversation,  without  getting  an  inch  nearer  to  de- 
fining their  nature. 

"What  are?"  said  Cintra,  catching  at  the  opportunity  of 
throwing  on  her  lover  the  responsibility  for  this  dissension,  which 
was  an  expression  of  suppressed  feelings  rather  than  a  logical 
outcome  of  anvthing  either  had  said.  "  What  are  you  speaking 
of?  " 

"'  Your  suspicions." 

"  ^^^len  have  I  said  I  suspected  anything?"  Strictly  speak- 
ing, she  had  not. 

"  You  may  not  have  actually  said  anything,  Cintra.  But  you 
know  what  you  meani." 

"  \Vliat  did  I  mean  ?  " 

Fred  evaded  a  direct  answer.  "  What  did  you  mean,"  said  he, 
"  by  saying  that  nothing  in  the  world  would  induce  you  to  live 
under  the  same  roof  as  Miss  Hinchlitfe?" 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  193 

"  WTiat  I  said.  Nothing  in  the  world  would  induce  me.  But 
take  The  Cedars.  Oh  yes — take  The  Cedars  by  all  means ! 
Only — don't  ask  me  to  live  there."  She  gave  a  strained  unreal 
laugh.  "But  what  would  it  matter?  /  should  not  be  wanted. 
Yes — go  to  your  Cedars  and  bask  in  the  smiles  of  your  Miss 
Lucy  Hinchliffe !  " 

"  Oh,  Cintra !  "  Fred's  honestly  shocked  tone  of  voice  testi- 
fied to  the  flagrancy  of  this  bald  statement  of  the  casus  belli. 
It  was  the  first  time  it  had  found  such  a  plain  expression  in 
language. 

She  seemed  relieved,  though,  to  have  spoken  it,  and  was  m.ore 
subdued  in  manner  as  she  continued : — ''  I  have  said  it  badly.  I 
knew  I  should.     But  it  is  what  I  mean." 

The  reserve  of  her  speech  carried  far  more  weight  than  the 
petulance  of  its  predecessor.  Fred  was  alive  to  it,  and  his  own 
manner  changed  as  he  said : — ''  What  is  it  that  you  wish,  Cintra  ? 
Tell  me,  what  would  you  have  ?  " 

"  I  will  tell  you  what  I  would  have.  I  would  have  you  say 
good-bye  to  me  and  go.  Let  us  end  the  foolish  mistake  we  have 
made,  and  be  friends.     No  more  than  friends." 

"But  why?" 

"  Call  it  my  wish  for  it,  if  you  must  put  the  blame  on  me. 
But  let  it  end.  Oh,  Fred,  let  it  end !  Do  not  make  me  say  more 
than  I  have  said — more  than  I  forced  myself  just  now  to  say — 
about  the  cause." 

The  spell  of  the  enchantress  had  died  down  steadily  for  a  fort- 
night; and  its  flame,  after  a  day  spent  witli  his  old  love  under 
their  old  circumstances,  was  like  a  candle-flame  with  its  liquid 
aliment  up  to  its  chin,  all  but  extinct.  All  might  have  been  well 
if  Cintra's  jealousy — too  much  on  the  alert  throughout,  the  story 
thinks — had  not  rankled;  had  not  been  on  the  watch  for  its 
opportunity  overmuch.  Yet  the  story  is  aware  that  in  saying 
this  it  is  only  reciting  one  of  the  lessons  of  convention.  W[\o 
can  say  that  what  it  is  correct'  to  call  outbursts  of  jealousy  arc 
not — in  young  women,  at  least — gleams  of  insight  into  the  in- 
stability of  their  lovers'  hallucinations?  How  be  sure  that 
Cintra's  seeming  exaggeration  of  what  might  have  been  the 
merest  trifling  was  not  such  an  insight?  A  little  premature, 
certainly! — but,  after  all,  essentially  sound?  The  story  pauses 
to  think. 

Not  so  Mr.  Frederic !  He  preferred  to  rank  it  as  delusion, 
pure  and  sim])le,  and  possibly  thougbt  that  the  less  ho  thougb.t 
about  it  the  better.     "  Say  you  are  tired  of  uio,  Cintra/'  said  lie 


194  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

irritably,  "  and  I  shall  know  what  you  mean.  But  for  God's 
sake  let's  have  an  end  of  this  wretched  nonsense  about  Miss 
Hinchliffe.  You  know  it  is  nonsense.  You  know  I  have  hardly 
seen  her." 

"  It  does  not  matter  how  much  or  how  little  you  have  seen 
her.  Or  rather,  the  less  you  have  seen  her  the  worse — the  worse 
for  both  of  us!  Have  I  no  eyes,  do  you  think?  Oh  no,  Fred, 
it  is  useless — worse  than^  useless — to  tajk  about  it.  I  could  not 
be  mistaken." 

"  You  ai-e,  for  all  that !  The  whole  thing  is  midsummer 
madness.  There  is  not  a  particle  of  foundation  of  any 
sort   .    ,    .■" 

"  Stop,  Fred !  "  The  young  man  made  no  attempt  to  finish. 
Was  he  just  enough  conscious  of  the  weakness  of  his  case  to  be 
glad  to  be  stopped  ?  Cintra  continued : — "  Will  you  make  me  a 
promise  ?  " 

"What  is  it?" 

"  To  give  up  the  idea  of  The  Cedars." 

"  ^^^lat !  even  for  us  alone  ?  " 

"  You  know  that  is  nonsense.  Look  at  the  size.  You  know 
what  I  mean.     Give  up  the  plan." 

Fred  stuttered  and  hesitated.  "  It's  not  so  easy  as  you  think," 
he  said.  "  Charley  and  I  have  talked  such  a  lot  about  it,  and  1 
know  he's  looking  forward  to  it  so.  It's  awfully  awkward.  Just 
exactly  the  very  day  he  is  taking  her  to  see  the  old  place !  "  He 
then  made  a  great  mistake — that  is,  if  he  really  wanted  to  con- 
ciliate the  young  lady.  "  Of  course,"  said  he,  with  a  sense  of 
relief  in  his  voice,  "  Miss  Hinchliffe  may  take  a  dislike  to  it,  and 
that  would  make  it  all  right." 

"  I  see."     Very  coldlv,  this. 

"  How  do  you  mean — see  ?  " 

"  I  understand."     Quite  as  coldly,  or  even  more  so. 

"  Perhaps  I  don't  understand." 

"  Perhaps  not." 

"  Might  we  be  a  little  less  enigmatical  ?  " 

"  What  is  it  that  you  find  so  difficult  to  understand?" 

"  Well — the  way  you  speak  !     W[va.i  did  I  say  wrong?  " 

There  was  real  anger  in  Cintra's  voice,  which  up  to  now  had 
been  showing  signs  of  softening,  as  she  flashed  round  on  him. 
"  Miss  Hinchliff'e,"  she  began ;  and  then  again : — '•'  Miss  Hinch- 
liffe — Miss  Hinchliffe  is  to  settle  it.  I  am  nothing !  Oh  no — I 
am  to  count  for  nothing.  I  am  only  Cintra  Fraser !  "  She  be- 
came subdued  again  in  a  moment.     "  Fred — what  I  said  just 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  195 

now  was  right.  Let  us  part.  Let  this  be  the  end  of  it.  .  .  .1 
ask  you  to  go." 

Now,  Fred  had  not  intended  his  speech  as  an  exaltation  of 
Miss  Lucy  Hinchliffe's  relative  importance.  The  gist  of  it  Avas 
merely  that  the  adoption  of  the  same  view  by  both  ladies  would 
relieve  the  position^  and  make  a  solution  easy.  The  Old  Mad- 
house would  lapse  naturally;  and  the  two  couples,  the  wiser  by 
their  experience,  would  nest  in  different  trees,  if  in  the  same 
coppice.  So  it  vexed  him  to  be  represented  as  claiming  a  higher 
position  for  his  friend's  wife  than  his  own.  Also,  it  must  be 
said  that  he  was  conscious  enough  of  defect  in  his  own  de- 
meanour as  a  lover  to  welcome  an  opportunity  for  a  little  justi- 
fiable indignation.  He  had  felt  great  discomfort  from  being  in 
the  wrong,  so  far.     Not  that  he  admitted  it. 

"  I  shall  go,"  he  said,  and  put  his  hand  on  the  door-handle. 

The  girl's  breath  seemed  to  catch,  and  she  said  with  a  half- 
gasp  : — "  Yes — and  part  friends.  It  must  be  this  way.  Fred — 
good-bye !  " 

How  often  at  some  moment  when  all  hangs  on  our  choice  of 
onward  or  backward,  right  or  wrong,  black  or  white,  we  give 
way  to  that  worst  of  all  counsellors,  a  proper  pride !  Fred  had 
one,  unfortunately  for  him;  and  in  addition  was,  just  at  this 
moment,  landed  on  an  outcrop  of  self-respect  by  the  misinter- 
pretation of  his  reference  to  Miss  Hinchliffe's  possible  disap- 
proval of  the  house.  He  was  in  the  right  there,  and  was  anxious 
to  forget  a  self-condemnation  he  could  not  help  about  his  sensi- 
tiveness to  Miss  Lucy's  black-eyed  witchery.  Pride  had  its  way 
at  a  crisis,  and  instead  of  throwing  himself  on  Cintra's  mercy, 
and  pleading  readiness  to  confess  any  sin,  anyhow,  truly  or 
falsely,  rather  than  lose  her,  he  actually  took  the  hand  of  fare- 
well she  offered  him,  and  left  the  room.  Outside  the  door  he 
had  closed  slowly,  hoping  that  she  would  try  and  detain  him,  he 
paused  and  listened.  A  cry,  a  sob,  any  evidence  of  emotion, 
would  have  brought  him  back,  penitent.  But  her  pride  was  at 
hand,  and  equal  to  the  occasion.  Can  it  be  certain  that  her 
resolution — obduracy,  if  you  will — had  in  it  no  element  of 
prudence  and  foresight  on  her  own  behalf?  May  she  not  have 
judged  her  lover's  devotion  to  herself  rightly,  assessed  it  at  its 
proper  value  ? 

Anyhow,  no  signal  of  distress  within  came  to  influence  the 
young  man  without,  who  had  no  choice — consistent  with  self- 
respect  aforesaid — but  to  go  on  to  the  street  door  and  open  it. 
He  did  so  very  audibly;  not  noisily,  but  with  audible  delibera- 


196  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

tion,  and  listened.  No  sound !  He  closed  it  behind  him  and 
listened.  Still,  no  sound!  He  went  slowly  down  the  long 
flight  of  stone  steps;  across  the  front  garden,  always  slowly; 
paused  long  over  his  last  chance — the  clang  of  the  garden  gate — 
and  then  stood  still  listening  in  a  sort  of  despair,  not  the  least 
believing  in  any  rescue  now,  before  he  walked  away  in  the  moon- 
light, emphasising  his  footsteps  as  a  farewell  chance.  But  it 
was  all  over. 

And  Cintra?  8he  waited — waited  immovable,  with  quick- 
coming  breath  and  eyes  still  fixed  on  the  door  he  had  closed, 
waited  till  the  garden  gate  had  put  its  seal  upon  the  deed  of 
separation,  and  till  she  was  sure  those  footsteps  had  taken  him 
well  out  of  hearing,  and  then  gave  way  to  a  torrent  of  eager  tears, 
that  she  had  had  ado  to  keep  in  check  till  now. 

Papa  Fraser,  wandering  downstairs  in  search  of  a  parcel  that 
ought  to  have  come,  found  it  on  the  hall-table  and  exclaimed 
against  the  vice  of  non-delivery  of  parcels  immediately  on  their 
arrival.  Had  this  one  been  in  his  possession  an  hour  since,  he 
would  already  have  made  up  his  mind  what  tone  to  take  in 
reviewing  the  History  of  Chemical  Nomenclature  which  it  con- 
tained. He  might  even  have  had  time  to  examine  the  chapter 
on  the  Alchemists.  His  wife,  on  the  landing  above,  just  going 
to  retire  for  the  night,  said  oh,  dear ! — she  was  always  speaking 
to  the  servants  on  this  very  topic,  and  her  efforts  were  fruitless. 
He  must  speak  to  Annette  himself.  Perhaps  she  would  mind 
him.  It  appeared,  however,  that  he  had  done  so  already,  and  had 
failed  to  imnrcss  Annette.  "  His  wife  extenuated  Annette,  say- 
ing what  could  her  husband  expect  of  an  uneducated  girl  whose 
father  was  a  pork-butcher?  The  Professor  said  that  nothing 
that  he  knew  of  in  butchering  of  pork  need  prevent  a  conscien- 
tious daughter  of  one  so  employed  from  bringing  a  book  to  its 
reviewer.  Annette  herself  appeared  and  excused  herself  on  the 
ground  that  this  was  not  a  book,  but  a  parcel,  having  come  by 
parcels  post.  Not  but  what  she  was  well  aware  of  the  contents, 
but  a  principle  was  involved.  Of  course — said  she — if  parcels 
with  books  inside  was  to  count  as  books,  she  would  know  where 
she  was,  another  time.  Her  mistress  said  she  must  mind  she 
did,  but  what  was  she  so  late  for?  The  force  of  the  hut  was 
scarcely  clear.  Annette  said  she  was  waiting  up  for  Miss  Nancy, 
who  hadn't  come  in. 

"  Not — come — in — yet !  "  The  Professor  brought  his  watch 
tempestuously  from  his  pocket,  exclaiming  that  it  was  Just  upon 
twelve  o'clock,  but  was  convicted  of  exaggeration,  as  it  was  only 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  197 

just  past  eleven.  The  boy  Eric,  from  some  unknown  overhead 
region,  shouted  out  with  incisive  distinctness  that  Nance  wasn't 
going  to  be  home  at  any  known  hour,  that  everybody  was  to  go 
to  bed,  that  nobody  was  to  fuss,  and  that  admission  to  the  house 
was  to  be  achieved  by  the  aiming  of  small  pebbles  at  his  window, 
if  indeed  he  was  not  waked  by  Ajax  the  dog,  who  would  hear 
Nancy's  bell  a  mile  off.  So  the  family  agreed  not  to  fuss,  though 
the  Professor  rather  shook  his  head  over  the  position. 

But  where  were  those  two — videlicet  lovers — who  were  insu- 
lated as  much  because  they  might  become  unbearable  as  for  any 
other  reason?  Annette  testified  that  she  thought  she  had  heard 
Mr.  Carteret  go  half  an  hour  back,  and  she  supposed  Miss  Cintra 
was  still  in  the  little  parlour.  The  Professor  humphed,  and 
thought  it  odd.  ''  He  never  came  upstairs  to  say  good-night,'' 
said  he. 

"■/  have  no  control  or  influence  of  any  sort,"  said  the  lady  of 
the  house.  "  But  no  doubt  your  daughter  can  explain."  She 
took  her  candle  and  soared  bcdwards. 

The  Professor  looked  into  the  little  parlour.  "  Sitting  in 
the  dark,"  said  he.  "What's  become  of  the  Patentee?"  For 
Cintra  had  turned  off  the  gas,  and  was  sitting  in  the  firelight, 
now  a  dull  expiring  glow. 

"  I  am  here,"  said  she.     "  Mr.  Carteret  has  sone." 

"  Mr.  Carteret !  "  her  father  exclaimed.  "  Xvhy,  Cit !— what's 
that  for?" 

"  It  is  all  right,"  said  she.  "  I  did  it."  It  was  not  so  right 
though  but  that  she  fell  suddenly  into  her  father's  arms  and 
cried  upon  his  bosom,  as  though  her  heart  would  break. 

"Why,  Cit— why,  Cit— why,  Cit,  child!  What  is  it  all? 
Tut — tut — tut!  .  .  .  Pooh,  girl! — just  another  bit  of  a  quarrel, 
and  a  reconciliation !  I  know — lovers'  quarrels — lovers'  quarrels  ! 
None  the  worse  for  that !  " 

"  This  is  not  a  lovers'  quarrel — not  what  people  call  a  lovers' 
quarrel.  It  is  not  a  quarrel  at  all,  perhaps ;  certainly  not  on  my 
side."  They  were  sitting  on  the  sofa  side  by  side  now,  he  keep- 
ing her  hand  to  pat — the  hand  Fred  had  held  so  short  a  time 
ago.  It  seemed  an  age  already  to  her,  and  her  hand  Imng  list- 
less, claiming  no  share  in  life. 

"  What  is  it  then,  if  it  is  not  a  quarrel?  " 

"  Only  the  end — the  end  of  it  all !  I  have  done  it.  I  have 
no  quarrel  with  Fred.     I  daresay  he  is  only  like  another  man." 

"  You  don't  like  to  tell  me  what  it  is?  " 
Yes,  Papa,  I  will."     She  paused  a  moment  as   to  collect 


« 


198  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

herself  for  an  effort.  "  It  is  because  I  will  not  submit  to  .  .  . 
to  what  I  know  other  girls  are  called  jealous  for  .  .  .  for 
making  any  complaint  about.  That  is  all — it  is  jealousy. 
Others  can  bear  it.  I  cannot."  She  seemed  to  be  analysing 
herself,  without  unfair  bias.  "  I  must  have  him  all  to  myself, 
or  not  at  all." 

"  I  see.  Master  Fred  has  been  making  sheep's  eyes  at  some 
other  young  lady.     Well   .    .    .  well   .    .    .   well   ,    .    .  ! " 

She  was  immediately  anxious  to  exonerate  him.  Oh  no — Fred 
was  far  too  good  for  anything  of  that  sort.  He  had  done  noth- 
ing.    He  would  not  do  anything. 

"  Well — what's  all  the  rumpus,  then  ?  "  The  Professor  was 
quite  honestly  bewildered. 

She  only  repeated  : — "  I  must  have  him  all  to  myself." 

"Or  not  at  all?"  said  her  father.  He  mused,  and  got  an 
insight.  "  I  think  I  see  what  it  is.  Some  other  young  lass  has 
got  into  his  head — like  alcohol.  They  do.  I  know,  because  I 
was  young  myself  once — before  you  were  born,  my  dear."  His 
voice  saddened  a  little  to  say : — "  Your  dear  mamma  had  a  com- 
plaint against  me  once.  She  did  the  right  thing  though — she  did 
the  right  thing." 

"Ye-es?"  Too  close  interrogation  would  scarcely  have  been 
daughterly. 

"  She  took  away  the  bottle.  Perhaps  I  ought  to  put  it,  she 
took  me  away  from  the  bottle.  Either  does.  .  .  .  Ah  dear, 
dear !  "  He  was  reminiscent  for  a  short  moment,  and  then  said, 
almost  to  himself : — "  Saw  the  brute  the  other  day !  My  word ! 
.  .  .  Well,  it  would  be  just  the  same  with  Fred,  keep  him  away 
from  the  bottle !  Alcohol's  the  worst,  because  in  this  case  there's 
only  one  bottle.  That's  an  advantage.  Keep  him  away  from 
the  bottle." 

"  I  know  what  you  mean.  Papa  dear !  But  you  put  it  so 
funnily.  Only  in  this  case  it  is  impossible.  Quite  impossible." 
She  flinched  from  a  statement  in  full,  though  she  foresaw  it 
would  have  to  be  made  in  the  end. 

He  did  not  press  to  know  more.  Indeed,  he  was  satisfied  that 
"  it  would  be  all  right " ;  that  there  was  no  reality  in  the  tragedy, 
and  that  the  lovers  would  be  billing  and  cooing  again  in  twenty- 
four  hours.  Above  all  he  was  quite  sure  that  he  would  do  more 
harm  than  good  by  putting  his  oar  in.  So  he  merely  counselled 
moderation,  and  temperance,  and  forgiveness,  and  all  the  things 
that  would  naturally  be  on  the  tongue's  tip  of  a  good  little  man; 
who,  so  far  as  he  had  a  selfish  motive  in  the  matter,  was  gov- 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  199 

erned  only  by  a  possibly  too  perfervid  love  of  peace  and  quiet, 
and  detestation  of  shindies.  He  was  entirely  wanting  in  the 
combative  character  of  a  true  pacifist. 

Cintra  went  away  to  a  sleepless  pillow,  to  watch  and  wait  for 
the  return  of  her  sister,  into  whose  ear  she  was  longing  to  pour 
out  the  whole  tale.  She  w^as  sure  of  heartwhole  sympathy  in 
that  quarter,  for  Xancy  was  always  on  the  woman's  side  when- 
ever a  balance  had  to  be  struck  between  creditor  and  debitrix, 
or  debtor  and  creditrix,  as  might  be.  But  the  hours  passed  and 
the  clocks  struck,  and  no  Nancy  came. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

Fred's  first  feeling  of  irritation  against  Cintra  for  what 
seemed  an  unreasonable  and  overstrained  jealousy  did  not  last 
him  many  minutes'  walk  from  the  garden  gate.  It  gave  way  to 
two  misgivings — one  that  she  was  not  absolutely  unreasonable ; 
the  other  that  she  was  in  earnest.  If  she  were — what  then? 
The  thought  made  him  feel  as  much  like  a  vacuum  as  was  con- 
sistent with  a  belief  in  his  existence — a  belief  that  cannot  be 
easily  shaken.  The  future,  or  rather  the  futures,  that  he  had 
been  planning  out  so  busily  for  himself  and  for  her  had  vanished 
like  the  white  ring  of  the  magic  lantern  on  the  sheet,  when  all 
the  slides  are  done  and  there  arc  to  be  no  more  enchanting 
dream-worlds,  and  it  is  time  for  the  children  to  go  to  bed.  The 
air  itself  was  gone  in  which  his  castles  had  been  built;  he  had 
been  roughly  awakened  from  the  sleep  that  his  dream-worlds 
demanded,  and  he  was  a  unit,  without  a  purpose,  on  the  cold 
bare  earth !  And  worst  of  all — a  thing  he  thought  of  now  for 
the  first  time — he  could  never  tell  the  source  and  origin  of  this 
collapse  to  Charley.     How  could  he? 

This  was  an  awful  thought.  But  it  was  simply  an  inevitable 
context  of  the  position.  There  would  be  absolutely  no  choice  for 
him  but  to  put  the  whole  miscarriage  of  his  schemes  and  hopes 
on  a  cryptic  dissension  between  himself  and  his  love,  of  too 
intangible  a  nature  to  be  understanded  of  any  people  but  them- 
selves. That  would  always  be  practicable.  But  he  must  be  on 
the  alert  to  surround  his  entrenchments  with  barbed-wire  en- 
tanglements, to  keep  Inquisitiveness  at  bay.  Could  he  succeed, 
after  so  manv  years  of  unreserved  mutual  confidence  with  Charley 
Snaith? 

A  nev*'  terror  shot  across  his  mind.  He  knew  that  that  young 
man  and  his  fiancee  had  chosen  this  afternoon,  that  had  just 
ended  in  an  unwelcome  midnight,  for  a  visit  to  the  Old  Mad- 
house. What  if  the  young  lady  took  to  the  place  with  a  pas- 
sionate enthusiasm  like  that  of  Cintra  that  autumn  day — Oh, 
how  long  ago,  and  how  unlike  it  all  was  to  now,  that  happy 
sanguine  time ! — when  he  and  Cintra  were  wandering  afar,  on 
that  most  joyous  of  errands,  the  seeing  of  premises,  and  found 
the  Old  iladliousG  as  the  result  of  an  intei'view  with  that  Wim- 

200 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  201 

bledon  house-agent?  What  if  she  too  had  come  tinder  that 
fatal  fascination  of  its  decay — its  white  lichens  on  grey  Port- 
land, of  the  days  when  those  quarries  were  sure  they  were  inex- 
haustible— its  matchless  iron  grill  over  the  gate  between  two 
red-brick  piers  whose  bulk  alone  deserved  an  article  in  The 
Builder,  its  panelled  mahogany  doors,  its  possibilities  of  History 
responding  to  Investigation  ?  What,  in  short,  if  she  had  set  her 
heart  on  the  house  as  Cintra  had  done,  and  the  whole  arrange- 
ment had  to  be  explained  away,  somehow  or  other?  If,  by  good 
luck,  she  hated  the  place,  the  collapse  of  his  own  engagement 
would  be  but  as  that  of  any  other  couple's — an  everyday  affair. 
There  would  be  no  nexus,  no  mutual  interdependence  of  arrange- 
ments.    However,  that  was  begging  or  borrowing  a  trouble. 

He  was  very  disinclined  to  go  home,  and  equally  averse  to 
returning  to  his  chambers;  where,  if  he  did  not  chance  on 
Charley  Snaith  coming  home  late,  he  was  tolerably  sure  to  see 
liim  first  thing  in  the  morning.  He  woiild  soonest  break  the 
news  to  him  by  letter,  if  possible.  Then  as  to  ^laida  Yale,  it 
would  at  least  be  safer  to  be  very  late,  to  make  sure  of  the  de- 
parture of  Elbows — this  was  how  his  mind  traditionally  spoke 
of  Nancy — -for  after  what  he  had  heard  of  her  lawless  nocturnal 
escapades  on  her  bicycle,  he  felt  it  was  far  from  certain  she  would 
not  stop  the  night  witli  his  mother,  and  depart  in  the  early 
morning.  Anyhow,  he  preferred  that  she  shoukl  know  that  her 
sister's  engagement  was  at  an  e^^d  from  herself,  not  from  liim. 
So  far  as  seeing  his  mother,  and  telling  her,  was  concerned,  he 
rather  wished  for  it  than  otherwise.  But  then,  had  she  not 
troubles  enough,  without  helping  him  to  bear  his?  Fred  was 
not  without  his  selfish  side — for  was  he  not  a  young  man? — 
but  he  did  not  show  it  towards  his  mother. 

He  had  another  side  of  which  the  story  has  seen  nothing,  no 
chance  having  brouglit  it  into  court — an  active  or  athletic  side. 
From  boyhood  upwards,  in  rowing,  riding,  swimming,  walking 
— any  exercise  or  athletic  game — he  had  always  borne  a  dis- 
tinguished part  among  his  fellows  at  school  or  college,  and  would 
have  led  easily  had  his  physique  been  abnormally  powerful.  But 
in  that  respect  he  was  only  a  little  above  the  average.  It  was 
rather  in  muscular  alacrity  and  a  great  endurance  of  fatigue  that 
he  shone.  More  especially,  his  walking  and  running,  when  sus- 
tained endurance  was  the  end  in  view,  had  left  fame  for  him 
both  at  his  uncle's  school  and  at  Cambridge,  where  indeed  the}'' 
had  to  make  up  for  that  fatal  lack  of  concentration  which  had 
always  stood  in  his  light,  and  was  the  real  cause  of  his  taking 


202  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

a  very  low  place  in  Honours.  The  practice  of  walking  pro- 
digious distances  had  remained,  while  the  classics  had  died  away, 
leaving  him  some  mathematics  to  forget  at  leisure,  except  in  so 
far  as  they  proved  of  service  in  Engineering.  He  would  still 
occasionally,  on  no  provocation,  walk  five-and-twenty  miles  in 
six  hours,  merely  to  stretch  himself. 

So,  when  he  said  to  himself : — "  I  won't  go  home  at  all.  I 
shall  just  walk  over  to  Guildford  and  be  back  to  breakfast  at  the 
Vale  about  nine  o'clock,"  he  meant  exactly  what  he  said.  Maida 
Vale  would  stare,  but  what  of  that?  He  had  symptoms  upon 
him — mental-feverish  symptoms — that  called  for  a  good  long 
stretch  to  shake  them  olf.  It  was  his  business  to  see  they  got  it. 
Nothing  like  walking  all  night — all  such  a  night  as  this — with 
the  full  moon  swimming  through  the  scattered  cloud-rack  over- 
head, and  almost  the  certainty  of  a  clear  sunrise.  He  was  angry, 
angry  with  Cintra,  angry  with  himself.  Perhaps  more  the 
latter ;  but  he  would  not  mope,  that  was  flat !  If  Cintra  was 
jealous  about  Lucy  Hinchliffe,  on  the  strength  of  the  evidence, 
what  would  she  not  be  jealous  about?  Cintra's  husband,  whether 
himself,  or  N  or  M,  as  might  be,  would  have  to  take  to  his  heels 
and  run,  whenever  a  tolerably  pretty  woman  appeared  on  the 
horizon. 

All  the  same,  he  said  peccavi  to  himself,  and  admitted  that  no 
justifications  might  have  had  to  be  found  for  Cintra,  if  she  had 
had  all  the  evidence  before  her.  But  lie  knew  he  had  kept  it 
deep  down  in  his  very  inmost  heart.  It  was  not  as  though  he 
had  confessed  to  those  items  of  witchery  which  he  now  revised 
mentally,  as  from  a  Catalogue  without  Words;  about  which  he 
stipulated  that  they  were  obvious  facts  which  he  could  bear  to 
look  in  the  face,  but  could  keep  quite  cool  about,  even  while  he 
enumerated  them.  Still,  he  asked  himself,  if  Cintra  had  seen 
that  Catalogue  over  his  shoulder,  how  should  she  know  how 
unmoved  he  was  by  this,  or  that, — wordless  items  of  the  lots  on 
view?  She  would  only  have  noted  the  beauty  of  this,  the  charm 
of  that,  the  grace  of  t'other.  She  never  could  have  gauged  the 
depth  of  his  critical  indifference.  .  .  .  And  so  on,  to  talk  him- 
self into  a  good  mood,  to  exonerate  himself  from  a  haunting  self- 
blame,  and  to  be  magnanimous  to  Cintra.  One  ought  always  to 
be  magnanimous  to  women,  as  one  has  been  created  stronger 
and  wiser  than  they,  however  keenly  alive  one  may  be  to  the 
fact  that  another  hasn't. 

He  formed  a  vague  scheme  in  his  mind  of  walking  to  Guild- 
ford— some  five-and-twenty  miles;   say,   six  hours'   walk.     He 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  203 

knew  an  inn  there  where  they  would  get  him  a  cup  of  coffee,  as 
early  as  that,  or  earlier.  Then  he  would  catch  an  early  train 
back,  and  be  in  time  for  his  mother's  breakfast,  which  was  late. 
If  Elbows  had  stopped  the  night,  she  would  by  that  time  have 
had  breakfast  to  herself  and  departed,  with  an  early  farewell  to 
her  hostess.  Then  he  could  announce  the  change  in  his  rela- 
tions with  Cintra,  which  he  deliberately  intended  to  optimise 
about ;  he  would  be  by  that  time  thoroughly  able  to  see  it  in  its 
right  light,  as  really  the  best  outcome  of  what  was  after  all  a 
mistake;  and  would  go  on,  fortified  by  his  mother's  counsel,  to 
what  was  really  the  much  more  difficult  task  of  breaking  the 
news  to  Charley  Snaith. 

That  was  his  programme,  and  it  lasted  him  as  far  as  Eipley. 
"WTiere  it  chanced  that  a  party  of  bicyclists,  on  some  expedition 
that  ignored  Time  and  Space,  were  resuming  their  journey  at  an 
unearthly  hour  in  the  morning,  at  the  doors  of  a  roadside  inn, 
where  in  old  days  many  a  nocturnal  coaching-party  or  horseman 
had  rung  up  sleepy  'ostlers  at  hours  equally  unearthly.  This 
inn  had  nearly  died  of  the  railways,  with  many  others,  when  the 
sudden  bicycle  filled  the  country  roads  with  a  new  and  un- 
dreamed-of traffic.  It  was  well  known  to  Fred,  and  he  was  well 
known  to  the  boy  who  had  left  his  bed  reluctantly  to  fasten  up 
after  the  early  departures.  Of  course  they  might  have  been  left 
to  let  themselves  out,  like  you  might  say,  but  they  was  good  for 
a  tanner  among  'em,  and  these  were  not  the  days  for  pointing 
the  finger  of  scorn  at  tanners,  or  indeed  tizzies,  if  you  come  to 
that.  The  boy,  interrogated  about  the  available  commissariat, 
could  not  provide  a  Lord  j\Iayor's  dinner  at  that  time  of  night, 
but  he  could  go  as  far  as  'arf  of  mild  and  a  cold  sarsage.  Fred 
did  not  seem  tempted. 

"You  couldn't  manage  a  cup  of  hot  coffee,  I  suppose?" 
said  he. 

"  Not  without  I  'oiler  up  the  missus,"  said  the  boy.  "  She's 
locked  the  cupboard  and  took  the  key  to  bed  with  her,  she 
has.  And  her  temper  gets  very  short,  times  and  again.  ...  I 
tell  3'ou  what  I  can  do  for  yer  though  if  you  ain't  in  any  bloom- 
ing hurry.  I  can  'ot  yer  up  a  cup  o'  bovril  over  the  gairce. 
There's  a  'arf  a  tin  left  after  these  gents." 

The  last  two  or  three  of  the  bicyclists  were  just  about  to 
follow  their  companions.  One  of  them,  close  at  hand,  joined  in 
the  conversation.  "  It's  '  alas  my  poor  brother ! ' "  said  he. 
"  In  the  advertisements.  It's  not  bad  after  you've  got  it  down, 
don't  you  know!     And  it  all  depends  on  how  you  look  at  it. 


204  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

It's  very  bad  soup,  but  it's  very  good  glue.  .  ,  .  Hey,  what's 
that?  "  This  was  in  answer  to  a  question  from  a  companion, 
which  Fred  had  heard  imperfectly.  "An  old  woman's?  No! 
— an  old  man's  .  .  .  old  gentleman's.  .  .  .  That's  what  they 
said.     I  don't  know  how  they  knew." 

Fred,  on  the  alert,  asked: — "What  was  that?  An  old 
gentleman's  wliat  ?  " 

"  Only  a  body  they  found,  as  we  came  along.  Some  old  chap 
committed  suicide !     Felo  de  se — that  sort  of  game !  " 

"  Stop  half  a  moment.  .  .  .  Only  to  know  where !  .  .  .  I 
have  a  reason  for  asking." 

"  All  right !  I  shall  catch  'em  up,  easy.  They'd  fished  him 
out  of  a  mill-pond.     Somewhere." 

"Yes— but  w/(eref  " 

"  Hoy — Moses  and  Son !  "  He  was  calling  to  a  companion, 
just  departing,  who  halted  and  looked  back.  "  Where  did  they 
say  he  was  fished  out?  " 

"  Out  of  a  pond  just  off  the  road." 

"  Yes— but  ickcrc  ?     Stoopid  !  " 

"How  should  I  know?  Pickles  told  me.  He's  gone  on." 
Then  this  young  man — evidently  nicknamed  "  Moses  and  Son  " 
from  his  race — shot  round  and  was  beside  them  in  an  instant. 
He  had  to  rotate  on  a  very  short  axis  to  keep  his  seat,  but  was 
always  within  hearing.     "  Pickles  said  '  Old  woman,' "  said  he. 

"  Because  he  didn't  know.  A  man  with  brooms  to  sell  told 
me.  But  what,  I,  v/ant,  to,  know,  is, — where  were  we  at  the 
time  ?     That's  the  point !  " 

"  Oh — I  s-s-see  .  .  .  !  Well — just  about  Wimbledon.  This 
side  of  Wimbledon." 

"Then  why  couldn't  you  say  so?"  But  Moses  and  Son  had 
no  explanation  to  offer,  and  neither  seemed  to  have  any  first- 
hand knowledge,  except  that  last  evening  they  had  shot  past  a 
group  of  persons  in  the  twilight,  surrounding  something  which 
had  just  been  placed  on  a  stretcher.  Their  information  was 
fragmentary,  and  indeed  contradictory.  But  Fred  had  got  his 
main  point  clearly  established,  and  he  was  visibly  agitated  by  it. 
So  much  so  that  Closes  and  Son  said  to  the  other  young  man 
sotto  voce: — "  Does  the  gentleman  know  any  party  who  would  be 
by  way  of  committing  suicide?  You  ask  him,  James!"  But 
James  seemed  unable  to  frame  the  question,  and  they  had  to 
catch  up  with  their  comrades;  so  said  good-night,  and  went  off 
at  fifteen  miles  an  hour. 

Fred  changed  his  plan  at  once,  and  decided  to  go'  back.     Per- 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  205 

haps  he  was  not  in  a  good  mood  for  cool  reasoning,  and  that  was 
why  he  weighed  no  evidence,  but  at  once  concluded  that  this 
drowned  man  would  prove  to  be  his  uncle.  He  wondered,  after- 
wards, why  he  jumped  so  readily  at  this  conclusion,  and  on  such 
vague  information. 

He  had  very  nearly  started  to  retrace  his  steps,  when  a  voice 
stopped  him — the  Boy's.  "  Hoy !  "  it  said,  "  you  ain't  a  going 
to  sarve  me  like  that,  after  me  a  hotting  of  it  up  for  yer,  reg'lar 
prime,  when  1  might  just  as  v/ell  ha'  been  in  bed."  Fred 
remembered  his  bovril,  and  went  into  the  inn-parlour;  where  he 
found  that  the  Boy,  to  make  it  as  princely  as  circumstances  per- 
mitted, had  prepared  it  on  a  tray,  with  a  table-napkin  folded 
double  to  veil  a  spill  of  gravy.  An  exuberance  of  fancy  had 
added  a  colosssal  decanter  of  cold  water  and  a  tumbler.  Salt  in 
a  blue  glass  salt-cellar  seemed  more  to  the  purpose,  and  Fred 
took  a  good  deal  with  the  wrong  end  of  a  pewter  spoon,  in  the 
hope  of  abating  thereby  the  gluefulness  of  the  thick  teacup's 
contents.  Tasted  with  that  spoon,  as  it  was  too  hot  for  human 
lips  to  approach  its  base,  it  was  eclipsed  by  the  pewter,  which 
was  very  unlike  the  wine  of  advertisements  which  leaves 
the  palate  immediately.  He  v/aited  for  the  glue  to  cool,  well 
knowing  that  this  did  not  depend  on  caloric,  or  anything  chemists 
have  run  home,  but  on  the  caprice  of  a  particular  coffee-cup. 
Never  mind ! — he  could  converse  with  the  Boy.  Where  did  he 
suppose  those  young  men  were  going  to? 

"  They  don't  know  theirselves.  Eeg'lar  on  the  loose,  they 
are!  They  come  in  last  evening.  Greedy  as  you  please,  they 
was !  Then  they  was  all  for  going  to  bed  early,  and  to  be  woke 
at  three-thirty,  and  git  on  to  a  substantial  breakfast  at  Guild- 
ford. Said  it'd  be  plenty  of  time  to  talk  over  where  they  was 
a  going  after  breakfast.  Come  from  somewhere  in  Hcssex',  they 
did.  Hout-of-the-way  sort  o'  place.  Next  door  to  Roosher,  as 
you  might  say." 

Fred  thought  you  mightn't,  if  you  had  accuracy  at  heart.  But 
he  said  nothing,  having  his  mind  full  of  what  he  had  just  heard. 
"  Did  those  chaps  say  anything  in  your  hearing  about  a  man 
drowned  in  a  mill-pond,  somewhere  about  Wimbledon  ?  "  This 
question,  he  thought,  might  get  him  some  information  he  had 
missed  in  his  short  interview  with  the  departed  youths. 

"  I  beared  'em  mention  some  such  a  sort  of  game.  I  don't 
suppose  they  was  expectiu'  me  to  take  account  of  what  they 
said." 

"It  wasn't  a  secret."     Fred  was  misinterpreting  the  Boy. 

11 


206  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

"  Didn't  say  it  worze.  I  was  mentioning  that  we  don't  take 
much  account  of  these  here  things,  not  in  these  parts.  We  lets 
'em  slide." 

"  What— suicides  ?  " 

"  Ah — corpses  and  things !  They  don't  trouble  we.  Nor  yet 
anything  else^  that  I  know  of.  Missus  she  reads  'em  in  the  noos- 
papers,  now  and  again.     But  they  don't  trouble  we." 

Fred  was  impressed  by  this  splendid  indifference  to  the  human 
lot.  Was  it  an  idiosyncrasy  of  the  Portsmouth  Road,  or  was 
it  limited  to  halting  places  for  bicyclists  ?  "  Couldn't  you  re- 
member what  they  said?"  said  he.  "Just  to  oblige — you 
know !  "  He  was  aware  it  would  be  a  departure  from  a  beaten 
path,  but  it  would  surely  be  an  excursion  into — suppose  we 
say? — Samaria. 

"  I  can  tell  most  anything  you  like,  as  far  as  that  goes,  when 
it  comes  to  obligin'  a  gentleman." 

"  Well,  what  did  you  hear  them  say  about  this  drowned  man 
that  was  fished  up?"  Fred  felt  he  was  speaking  brutally;  but 
then,  he  did  not  want  the  Boy  to  suspect  motives. 

''  Just  precisely  that.     He  was  a  drowned  man  they  fished  up." 

"  And  what  sort  of  a  man  ?  ^Yhat  was  he  dressed  like,  did 
they  say?  "  The  Boy  mused,  and  wanted  prompting.  Fred  was 
getting  impatient,  and  forgot  Charley  Snaith's  frequent  cautions 
about  leading  questions.  "  Was  he  dressed  like  a  parson,  for 
instance  ?  " 

The  Boy  picked  up  his  spirits.  "  Eight  you  are,  Master !  " 
said  he.  "  Xow  I  call  to  mind,  that's  the  wery  selfsame  thing 
one  on  'em  did  say.     Said  he  was  a  parson." 

"  And  a  big  man — big  and  tall  ?  "  Fred  felt  so  painfully 
certain  now,  that  he  did  not  scruple  to  make  suggestions. 

''  Right  you  are  again,  Master !  That's  what  they  said.  A 
rare  big  'un.     I  heerd  'em  a  sayin'  of  it." 

Fred  was  satisfied.  He  would  go  to  Wimbledon  anyhow,  as 
that  was  the  only  tracing  clue  that  he  had.  But  he  was  keen  now 
to  come  at  the  facts,  and  not  disposed  to  spend  time  over 
walking,  if  there  was  any  chance  of  an  up-train  at  the  nearest 
station.  The  Boy  testified  that  he  would  catch  the  six-ten  if 
he  looked  sharp,  but  it  was  a  tidy  walk  to  the  station.  He  bolted 
the  glue,  and  started,  leaving  the  Boy  to  finish  his  night's  rest, 
if  so  disposed.  But  the  day  had  become  an  established  fact, 
and  the  rosy  dawn  had  gone  away  westward,  and  was  well  over 
the  Atlantic  by  now. 

Fred's  brain  was  in  a  whirl,  and  no  wonder,  after  such  a  day. 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  207 

followed  by  such  a  night !  His  physical  vigour  was  still  many 
hours  from  a  collapse;  indeed,  he  was  not  looking  forward  to 
any  rest  till  next  night  in  bed.  But  his  judgment  had  gone  by 
the  board.  As  he  sped  along  the  highroad  toward  the  station 
acknowledging  the  truth  of  what  the  bicyclist  had  said,  that  the 
glue  was  not  so  bad  when  you  had  got  it  down,  no  doubt  crossed 
his  mind  but  that  the  mystery  was  solved,  and  the  cause  of  his 
uncle's  disappearance  discovered.  He  would  go  to  hear  what 
he  could  of  it  at  Wimbledon  police  station,  and  had  no  doubt  he 
would  be  able  to  identify  the  body.  He  was  consoled  for  the 
horror  of  his  task  by  the  reflection  that  but  for  this  accidental 
hearing  of  the  thing  the  news  in  all  its  gruesomeness  might  have 
come  suddenly  to  his  mother.  He  could  save  her  from 
that. 

He  caught  the  up-train,  and  found  himself  at  Wimbledon  just 
as  the  clocks  were  striking  seven.  In  a  very  short  time  he  was 
interviewing  the  Inspector  in  charge,  but  was  disappointed  at 
his  unsympathetic  attitude.  "  Nothing  of  the  sort  reported  so 
far.  At  least,  not  here!" — was  his  only  comment.  This  was 
before  he  knew  more  than  was  to  be  learned  from  Fred's  bald 
first  enquiry  about  the  drowned  man,  v/hich  did  not  show  his 
identity.  After  he  had  entered  the  enquirer's  name  and  address, 
he  became  more  interested,  saying : — "  \Yhat  was  the  name  of  the 
party  again  you  mentioned  ?  " — the  party,  of  course,  being  the 
mortal  coil  someone  had  shuffled  off  in  that  mill-pond.  Fred 
had  not  referred  to  his  uncle  by  name,  but  did  so  now,  with 
an  effort  towards  illumination  of  the  Inspector.  "  Xot  the  sub- 
ject of  enquiry  three  weeks  ago?"  said  he.  He  thought  he  had 
heard  Fred's  name  before.  But  Fred  might  rest  satisfied  about 
the  yield  of  that  mill-pond.  If  that  had  been  the  Rev.  Drury 
Carteret,  they  would  have  heard  of  it  at  that  station  by 
now.  No  fear  on  that  score.  But  this  Inspector  threw  doubt 
on  the  whole  story  of  the  mill-pond. 

Nevertheless,  Fred  ''  elicited "  from  him  that  there  was  a 
mill-pond  about  two  miles  off,  which  liad  always  been  popular 
with  suicides,  and  had  had  more  than  its  fair  share  of  attention 
from  the  victims  of  accidents.  Nevertheless,  that  Inspector  had 
a  deep-seated  conviction  that  it  was,  in  this  case,  not  guilty. 
"  In  course  if  you  want  a  walk,"  said  he,  "  there  can't  be  any 
great  harm  come  of  your  walking  over  to  enquire.  But  / 
shouldn't,  if  I  was  in  your  place."  Fred  affected  a  general 
assent;  but  as  soon  as  he  was  out  of  sight  of  that  station, 
gave    way    to    restless    desire    for    certainty,    and    started    for 


208  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

Flinders's  Mill,  which  he  understood  was  the  name  of  the  water- 
mill  in  question.  He  did  not  want  to  arrive  at  Maida  Vale, 
with  this  bad  news,  any  earlier  in  the  morning  than  was  neces- 
sary.    This  would  just  fill  out  the  time. 

He  found  himself,  rather  to  his  discomfort,  being  directed 
into  exactly  the  road  the  loquacious  fly-driver  had  driven  him 
and  Charley  Snaith  along  when  they  paid  that  visit  to  the  Old 
Madhouse.  If  his  directors  to  Flinders's  Mill  persisted  in  their 
testimonies  as  to  its  whereabouts,  he  might  be  unable  to  avoid 
it,  as  he  told  his  inner  self  he  wished  to  do.  That  self  refused 
to  accept  his  statement;  and  further  accused  him  of  an  unac- 
countable desire  to  see  the  place  again.  Absurd  as  this  seemed, 
he  felt  unable  to  pooh-pooh  it  with  the  thoroughness  it  deserved. 
However,  he  would  only  look  at  it  outside,  would  certainly  not 
go  in. 

He  had  arrived  on  the  jerry-builder's  desolation  on  the  edge 
of  which  The  Cedars  still  held  to  the  traditions  of  past  rusticity ; 
now  given  over  as  "  ripe  for  building "  to  what  is  known  to 
house-agents  as  "  development."  He  did  not — could  not — re- 
joice at  the  decision  of  Destiny  to  write  nothing  about  it  in  the 
book  of  his  future,  but  could  he  regret  it?  He  answered  this 
question,  in  the  negative,  as  an  elm  fell  by  the  roadside,  to  make 
way  for  the  next  lot  of  eligible  residences.  In  a  year  or  so  The 
Cedars  would  be  a  piteous  survival  of  a  forgotten  past,  pro- 
testing in  vain  against  the  ghastliness  of  a  residential  present. 
If  indeed  anyone  ever  bought  the  remainder  lease  and  prolonged 
its  forlorn  existence  for  a  few  short  years,  only  to  be  "  devel- 
oped "  in  the  end  ! 

Those  were  his  thoughts  as  he  turned  out  of  the  main  road  into 
the  lane  which  led  past  the  gate  of  the  disconsolate  mansion. 
But  they  changed  when  he  reached  it,  for  in  the  freshness  of  the 
first  really  summer-like  morning  of  the  year  it  looked  far  from 
disconsolate.  Fred  saw  through  the  grill  of  that  coveted  iron 
gate  that  the  roses  on  the  big  bush  half-way  up  the  garden  path 
would  be  bursting  in  a  week  or  two,  unless  Fate  caught  them 
at  it  and  changed  the  weather  out  of  spite.  He  wondered  which 
was  which  of  the  singing  birds  who,  still  in  happy  ignorance  of 
the  nightmare  city,  a  year's  march  nearer  since  they  had  their 
last  spring  concert,  were  making  their  protected  oasis  vocal  with 
their  story  of  a  hundred  broods.  Was  that  a  chaffinch,  for  in- 
stance, that  clear  persistent  note  in  a  flood  of  trills  and  ripples? 
It  was  like  his  idea  of  a  chaffinch — but  what  was  the  use  of 
that?     He  was  always  wrong  when  he  tried  to  guess  songsters. 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  .209 

Did  they,  he   speculated,   sing  better   or   worse   for  having   no 
lunatics  to  sing  to  nowadays? 

He  stopped  with  his  hand  upon  the  bell-handle  to  invent,  if 
possible,  a  sound  reason  for  being  at  the  house  at  all,  and  failed. 
He  knew  perfectly  well  that  if  ever  man  had  taken  action  on 
a  pure  and  unadulterated  whim,  he  had  done  so  when  he  turned 
off  the  main  road  in  this  vague  purposeless  way.  He  clinched 
the  matter  by  a  good  round  pull,  which  set  the  bell  within — 
which  lived  under  a  decaying  cover  in  the  open  air — swinging 
and  jangling  in  a  way  that  almost  convinced  him  he  had  a  pur- 
pose. He  had  none,  and  had  to  devise  an  obligation,  with  any 
caretaker  in  the  wide  world.  Mrs. — what  was  her  name? — 
Grewboer,  in  consideration  of  an  inordinate  tip,  was  bound  to 
wink  at  any  fiction  he  chose  to  justify  his  conduct  by.  If  she 
chose  to  say : — "  Don't  you  tell  me  no  lies !  "  he  would  be  justi- 
fied in  reducing  her  shilling  to  sixpence.  This  ethical  specu- 
lation, however,  engrossed  him  less  than  the  question  why  on 
earth,  seeing  that  he  and  this  domicile  had  surely  parted  company 
for  good,  he  should  suffer  from  this  involuntary  persistency  to 
see  the  inside  of  it  again. 

]\Irs.  Grewbeer  in  the  flesh — or  the  skin  and  bone  rather — 
appeared  at  the  end  of  the  gravel  pathway,  but  grudged  loco- 
motion, seeming  to  disbelieve  in  the  bona  fides  of  the  summons. 
Fred  heard  her  commune  with  one  within,  whose  words  must 
have  been  angry,  judged  by  his  voice.  "  It's  them  boys  again," 
said  she.  "  I  ain't  goin'  to  traipse  all  the  way  to  the  gate,  not  on 
ilieir  account."  She,  however,  moved  a  little  further  down  the 
path,  and  called  out:— "Who's  that  rang?" 

"  Me !  "  shouted  Fred.  The  question  had  been  to  determine 
whether  the  ringer  had  fled,  and  was  watching  from  behind 
some^diere  to  witness  her  discomfiture,  or  otherwise.  So  Fred 
thought  a  monosyllable  met  the  case.  Indeed,  how  could  he 
have  described  himself? 

The  old  woman  came  to  the  gate,  and  recognised  liim  as 
"  the  gentleman."  She  said,  for  courtesy : — "  If  you'd  ha'  said 
it  was  you,  I'd  have  'urried  a  bit  more."  But  could  Fred  have 
called  out : — "  I'm  the  gentleman  "  ? 

He  produced  his  prearranged  fiction,  with  nonchalance.  He 
had  got  a  dimension  wrong  by  accident,  and  couldn't  get  his  plans 
right.  He  enlarged  upon  it,  to  convince  himself  of  its  validity. 
"It's  only  a  few  inches  out,"  he  said,  "but  there's  nothing  like 
having  a  thing  right,  while  you're  about  it." 

Mrs.  Grewbeer  applauded  this,  as  a  maxim  or  principle  that 


21C  TH*E  OLD  MADHOUSE 

guided  the  lives  of  Grewbeer,  his  Uncle  Mark,  and  her  own 
family  connection.  But  fancy  the  gentleman  coming  all  the  \A'ay 
from  town  for  only  a  few  inches !  And  the  other  gentleman 
could  have  took  a  little  measure  like  that,  only  yesterday,  when 
he  come  with  the  young  lady.  She  seemed  to  think  that  the 
unprofessional  mind  could  grapple  with  small  measurements — 
the  smaller  the  easier.     Micrometry  thinks  otherwise. 

"  Did  the  other  gentleman  come  yesterday  ?  "  Fred,  with 
aroused  interest,  shouted  tlie  question  in  her  ear. 

"  Oh — ay !  Sure  enough  !  In  a  carriage  they  come.  Him 
and  a  young  lady.^' 

"And  were  thev — was  she  pleased  w'ith  the  house?"  Fred 
asked  with  some  anxiety. 

"  Oh — ay !  I  shouldn't  say  she  took  it  to  'art  much."  Wliat 
did  that  mean?     It  was  enigmatical. 

"Didn't  care  about  it?"  Fred  affected  insouciance,  but  lis- 
tened carefullv  for  an  answer. 

"The  lady?" 

"  Yes — the  lady.  .  .  .  Damned  old  slowcoach  ?  "  This  was 
aside,  of  course. 

"  The  lady   .    .    .   only  it  ain't  for  me  to  say   ..." 

"Go  ahead!" 

"  The  lady  she  was  what  the  folks  they  do  call  hairy,  down  in 
these  parts.     Gives  herself  hairs." 

Fred  had  to  reflect  a  moment  to  find  the  meaning  of  this. 
Then  he  saw  that  he  had  been  momentarily  deceived  by  an  aspi- 
rate— a  too  too  solid  one.  In  other  quarters  of  the  world,  no 
doubt,  folks  would  have  avoided  the  association  of  a  Persian  Cat 
by  the  use  of  some  such  expression  as  airisome.  This  was  so  far 
satisfactory  though,  that  it  showed  that  the  young  lady's  approval 
had  not  been  rapturous.  "  What  was  it  she  said  now  ?  "  he 
asked  in  a  confidential  shout — or  the  nearest  reasonable  approach 
to  it.      . 

"  I  didn't  ketch  much  she  said,  but  I  took  notice,  with  my 
heyesight.  The  apartments  was  too  small  or  too  large,  and 
mostly  looked  the  wrong  way." 

"That's  all  right,  anyhow!"  Fred  spoke  to  himself,  in  a 
tone  of  relief.     "  Anything  else?  " 

"  There  was  too  many  heckers  when  a  door  slammed.  And 
she  reg'lar  took  against  our  senk.  I  see  her  smellin'  and  a 
thinkin' — a  smellin'  and  a  thinkin' — and  I  says  was  she  noticin' 
anything?  Because  they  was  a  rare  lot  worse,  I  says,  and  the 
senk  was  a  patent,  and  the  trappin'  might  want  a  bit  of  seein' 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  211 

to,  but  nothin'  un'olesome  by  the  flaviour.  And  Grewbeer  he 
giv'  assurance,  being  practical  hisself.  But  there! — she  put  me 
past,  the  hairs  she  gave  herself.  What  I  cannot  abide,  is  notice- 
takin';  and  so  I  said  to  Grewbeer  the  minute  I  seen  the  last  of 
her.     A  pryin'  and  sniffin',  indeed !  " 

All  this  was  most  gratifying  to  Fred,  and  he  really  felt  quite 
indebted  to  that  senk,  or  sink,  whose  flavour  had  produced  so 
strong  an  effect  on  Miss  Hinchliff'e.  It  was  a  weight  off  his 
mind  to  hear  that  the  beauty  took  an  unfavourable  view  of  the 
residence.  He  would  be  much  better  able  to  tell  Snaith  of  his 
own  disastrous  climax. 

But  he  was  bound  in  honour — to  keep  on  speaking  terms  with 
Probability,  as  it  were — to  carry  through  his  little  farce  of 
measuring  something.  It  should  be  the  width  of  that  long 
passage  going  to  the  greenhouse.  If  he  wavered  about  where  it 
was,  his  fiction  would  be  shaken.  Self-respect  demanded  per- 
sistency, and  he  measured  it  carefully  twice  with  his  little  ivory 
foot-rule,  and  made  a  note  of  it  on  his  shirt-cuff.  "  Three-and- 
a-quarter  inches  out !  "  said  he.  "  I  thought  so.''  He  did  it 
solely  to  deceive  himself;  certainly  not  for  the  benefit  of  Mrs. 
Grewbeer.  And  as  for  Mr.  Grewbeer,  Fred  surmised  that  he 
was  still  in  bed. 

There  was  no  substratum  of  sense  or  purpose  in  any  of  this 
performance.  He  did  not  suspect  himself  of  being  light-headed 
or  irresponsible.  Yet,  in  a  sense,  he  probably  was  so.  He  kept 
on  telling  himself,  at  odd  moments,  that  the  termination  of  his 
relation  with  Cintra  was  to  make  no  difference  to  him.  It  was, 
he  decided,  not  to  be  a  disappointment — only  an  awakening; 
only  the  end  of  a  mistake.  He  had  some  misgiving  now  as  to 
how  he  should  meet  his  mother's  sympathy — pray  Heaven  she 
would  not  be  sympathetic !  Charley  might  sympathise  if  he 
liked.  It  would  be  a  reasonable  weakness  in  Charley,  seeing 
what  7ns  position  would  be  if  Lucy  Hinchliffe   .    .    . 

He  stopped  himself  with  a  jerk,  and  felt  ashamed.  The  story 
suspects  that  he  saw  himself  now  for  the  first  time;  all  the 
shallowness  of  his  love  for  Cintra,  which  had  allowed — he  could 
not  deny  it  now — that  the  pulses  of  his  heart  should  be  abnor- 
mally stirred  by  what  self-speech  elected  to  call  mere  beauty, 
and  that  beauty  already  dedicated  to  his  friend !  That  love  had 
been  illusion  all  along,  and  Cintra  had  found  it  out  in  time! 
Tortunate  for  her  that  she  had  done  so ;  fortunate  for  him. 
But  stop!  How  if  her  love  for  him  had  been  of  another  sort? 
He  could  recognise  the  instability  of  his  own  passion  for  her. 


212  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

and  could — magnanimously — despise  himself  for  it.  But  how 
about  the  nature  of  her  affection  for  liim?  Had  he  ever  given  it 
a  thought? 

He  shook  himself  free  of  any  responsibility  to  his  conscience 
on  that  score,  considering  that  the  decision  of  the  question  rested 
with  Cintra,  not  with  him;  and  that  it  was  at  her  desire,  not 
his,  that  their  relation  was  terminated.  He  would  nevertheless 
have  felt  more  respect  for  himself  had  the  draught  been  more 
bitter  to  swallow. 

The  most  he  could  do,  as  he  stood  there  in  the  dwelling  tliey 
had  schemed  to  make  their  home,,  was  to  heave  a  fairly  heartfelt 
sigh  over  the  uncertainty  of  our  lot  on  this  planet.  But,  on  the 
wav  from  the  bottom  of  his  soul,  it  got  mixed  v.-ith  one  of  relief 
that  sundry  embarrassments  incidental  to  the  proposed  sharing  of 
the  one  nest  by  the  two  pair  of  love-birds  would  be  avoided. 

In  that  avenue  of  thought  he  was  caught  in  another  trap  of 
self-reproach.  His  reflection  that  Uncle  Drury,  after  all,  prob- 
ably would  have  vetoed  the  whole  scheme,  made  him  angry  v/ith 
himself  for  allowing  liis  own  troubles  and  perplexities,  even  for 
a  moment,  to  obscure  the  darker  cloud  of  the  mystery  of  his 
uncle's  disappearance.  Here  too  on  th.e  very  spot  where  he  was 
last  seen  alive ! 

Was  he  getting  a  little  light-headed  ?  He  did'  suspect  him- 
self of  it  a  moment  later ;  for  nothing  else  could  account  for  an 
odd  incident  that  happened  at  this  moment,  and  caused  him 
some  uneasiness  about  his  own  condition. 

^Irs.  Grewbeer  had  withdrawn  impressed  by  a  belief  that  a  cat 
had  got  in  and  'id,  and  the  trouble  they  giv'  was  beyond  language 
to  describe.  She  was  hunting  for  that  cat  in  a  remote  apart- 
ment when  Fred  put  away  his  pencil.  He  turned  and  walked 
after  her,  not  because  he  could  not  let  himself  out,  as  his  uncle 
had  done;  but  because,  unlike  him,  he  had  not  paid  his  footing 
in  advance.  At  the  angle  of  the  passage  a  vivid  image  of  his 
uncle,  as  described  by  Mrs.  Grewbeer,  when  she  left  him  to 
answer  the  bell,  had  power  to  stop  him  for  the  time  that  it 
lasted.  And  it  was  then  that  the  voice  which  on  his  former 
visit  he  had  ascribed  to  his  friend — because  it  could  not  have 
been  anyone  else's — said  again,  in  precisely  the  same  drill-ser- 
geant tone : — "  Come  back,  Fred  !  " 

He  was  alarmed,  almost  seriously.  But  his  alarm  was  about 
his  own  state — a  scare  free  from  superstition.  He  remembered 
how  Charley — jokingly,  to  be  sure — had  accused  him  of  being 
"  dotty,"  and  had  ascribed  his  dottiness  to  the  atmosphere  of 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  213 

lunacy  which  still  hung  over  the  Old  Madhouse.  That  was  a 
Scientific  Possil)ility,  as  we  now  knew.  Had  wo  not  ascertained, 
bevond  a  shadow  of  doubt,  that  there  were  microbes  too  small 
for  detection  by  the  most  powerful  microscopes?  It  had  become 
scientifically  certain  that  things  existed  that  could  never  be  per- 
ceived by  us.  No  superstitious  nonsense — spirits  and  ghosts — 
but  real  Scientific  things !  Among  these,  why  not  the  bacillus 
of  Lunacy?  Anyhow,  after  that,  the  sooner  he  was  on  his  way 
to  Flinders's  Mill,  the  better ! 

A  sound  as  of  an  old  person  terrifying  a  cat  with  whoops,  a 
scud  and  a  rush,  and  then  the  reappearance  of  Mrs.  Grewboer 
on  the  main  staircase.  Her  first  words  reassured  Fred  about  the 
state  of  his  own  faculties.  "  Who  'ollered?  "  said  she.  "  Some- 
hod;/  'ollered !  " 

It  occurred  to  Fred  that  he  would  be  more  likely  to  have  the 
good  lady's  report  in  full  if  he  affected  to  have  heard  nothing. 
So  he  replied  : — "  Couldn't  say!     Who  hollered  where?  " 

The  old  woman's  bony  finger  pointed.  "  Jist  round  where  you 
was,  a  medjerin !  "  said  bhe. 

"Outside  in  the  street,"  said  Fred.  "  ]\Iust  have  been! 
There  was  nobody  my  way,  to  holler."  He  preferred  falling 
back  on  n  priori  certainty  to  giving  personal  testimony.  Besides, 
his  object  was  to  elicit  personal  testimony,  and  nothing  does 
this  so  well  as  an  affirmation  of  impossibility' 

"  Warn't  nobody,  good  Lord !  Then  what  should  I  hear  liim 
'oiler  for?  He  took  care  to  be  there,  afore  ever  he  'ollered. 
You  may  take  that  off  o'  me,  for  all  I'm  nigh  on  ninety."  She 
evidently  had  heard  the  voice.  But  when  he  asked  what  tlie 
AA-ords  were,  she  demurred.  "  One  don't  ketch  one  word  agin' 
another,  at  ray  time  o'  life,"  she  said.  "  He  didn't  'oiler  for  to 
say  nothing.    You  may  put  your  money  on  that,  young  Master !" 

It  was  evidently  useless  to  press  for  details.  She  had  heard 
that  someone  shouted  something,  but  could  not  say  what.  Fred 
resented  her  having  heard  anything,  as  it  presented  an  obstacle 
to  a  theory  of  hallucination,  which  his  nervous  condition  and 
want  of  sleep  would  have  made  plausible.  It  was  more  with  the 
idea  of  rounding  off  the  subject  than  that  he  expected  intelligent 
information  that  he  asked  the  old  woman  the  whereabouts  of 
Flinders's  Mill. 

"Hay?"  said  she.  "  Ho !— Flinders's  Mill.  No— not 
-  Flinders's  Mill  I  don't  know.  Arc  ye  sure  it  wasn't  Dray- 
croft's  !  "  But  Fred  was  as  certain  as  of  anything  in  an  uncer- 
tain world  that  it  was  Flinders's,  and  by  no  means  Draycroft's. 


214  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

Would  it  be  possible  that  Mr.  Grewbeer  would  know  of  it? 
"  He  don't  know,  if  I  don't,"  said  his  wife.  "  And  no  wonder ! — 
seein'  I've  known  these  parts  seventy-two  years,  ever  since  I 
married  my  first,  and  Grewbeer's  not  been  here  above  forty  years 
yet.     But  there  ain't  no  law  that  I  know  of  against  asking  him." 

In  the  absence  of  any  statute,  Fred  decided  on  making  the 
enquiry.  Mr.  Grewbeer  was  out  of  bed,  if  you  like.  This  was 
Mrs.  Grewbeer's  way  of  intimating  that  he  had  not  arrived  at 
the  point  of  putting  off  his  nightshirt.  He  was,  in  fact,  when 
Fred  looked  in  at  his  door  by  permission,  in  a  flannel  gown. 
So  his  wife  said,  adding  her  advice  that  he  should  git  his  trousers 
on,  and  not  set  there  thinking,  like  a  howl.  There  was  no 
ground  whatever  for  concluding  that  he  was  employed  in 
thought,  except  that  he  was  not  emplo3'ed  in  action. 

When  asked  for  the  whereabouts  of  this  mill,  he  repeated  its 
name  several  times  with  a  stress  on  the  first  syllable,  as  though 
he  did  know  of  a  mill  spelt  nearly  like  that,  but  not  quite. 
^'  Flinderses — Flinderscs — i^/mderses !  "  said  he.  Then  a  light 
dawned  suddenly,  and  he  addressed  his  wife : — "  Why,  that  self- 
same mill  I  was  a  tellin'  you  of  last  night  was  Flinderses,  where 
the  party  was  took  out  dead.  Only  last  night !  So  there's  the 
mill  safe  enough,  and  there  you'll  find  it.  You  keep  right  along 
the  road  till  you  git  to  The  Three  Magpies.  And  don't  you  stop 
there,  but  foller  right  on  till  you  get  acrost  the  bridge." 

Mr.  Grewbeer  waited  so  long  for  his  hearer's  imagination  to 
cross  the  bridge,  that  the  latter  said  impatiently : — "  Yes,  3'es 
— and  then  ?     Then  do  what  ?  " 

"  I'm  a  tellin'  of  yer !  "  said  Mr.  Grewbeer,  not  to  be  hurried. 
"  You  keep  to  your  right,  where  you  see  the  towin'  path,  and 
keep  along  betwixt  and  between  the  canal  on  your  right  and  the 
overflow  on  your  left,  and  you'll  come  to  the  backwater  where 
the  party  was  took  out  dead." 

"  Good  God !  "  Fred  was  unable  to  restrain  an  expression  of 
emotion.  But  he  would  have  done  so  if  he  could,  for  he  did  not 
court  the  confidence  of  these  two  old  people. 

"  You  ain't  keerful  what  you  say,  Grewbeer.  Supposin'  the 
gentleman's  acquainted !  " 

"  What  was  I  a  sayin'  of  ?  The  gentleman  ho  up  and  asks  me, 
'  Where  do  you  make  out  Flinderses  Mill  is  ? '  And  ain't  I  a 
tellin'  of  him?  You  be  keerful  what  you  say  yourself,  afore 
takin'  other  folk  up  short."  The  old  man  was  very  irritable, 
and,  Fred  thought,  unreasonabl}'. 

So  he  took  on  himself  to  make  peace.     "  You  mustn't  blow 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  215 

your  wife  up  on  my  account,  Mr.  Grewbeer/'  he  said.  "You 
see  it  is  possible  ...  I  have  some  reason  to  believe,  that  is — 
that  this  man  that  was  found  in  the  water  yesterday  was  .  .  . 
was  in  short  a  relation  of  my  own.  ..."  He  hesitated,  as  he 
was  far  from  clear  that  old  Grewbeer  knew,  or  at  least  was 
alive  to,  the  facts  of  his  uncle's  disappearance,  and  that  he  had 
been  last  seen  at  The  Cedars. 

"  Well,  young  ilaster,  you  go  down  to  The  Three  j\Iagpies  and 
enquire,  and  if  you  don't  find  your  relation  there^  it'll  be  because 
he's  gone  home.  Ah — on  his  legs !  You  may  stare,  but  he  was 
getting  all  to  rights,  said  the  doctor  when  I  come  awa}^,  maybe 
eleven  of  the  clock." 

Fred  fairly  gasped.  "  Why,  man,  what  the  .  .  .  what  the 
.  .  .  devil  do  you  mean?  *  Getting  all  to  rights'  after  .  .  . 
after  ..."  He  could  not  finish: — "After  being  nearly  a 
month  in  the  water."  The  clash  of  his  firm  conviction  that  this 
must  be  his  uncle,  with  this  first-hand  evidence  of  the  incident, 
now  heard  for  the  first  time,  was  overpowering.  He  could  only 
find  hoarse  utterance  for: — "Impossible! — impossible!  What 
does  it  mean?" 

The  old  man  caught  half  his  meaning,  and  ascribed  to  him 
unfamiliarity  with  the  powers  of  resuscitation  after  drowning. 
"  Arter  three-quarters  of  an  hour  in  the  water?  That  ain't 
nothing  uncommon.  I've  known  a  man  five  hours  under,  and 
the  doctor  he  fetched  him  round.  If  this  here  chap  had  knowed 
how  to  swim,  he'd  have  got  hisself  out  easy.  As  it  was  they  had 
to  go  for  the  dredge — 'angs  near  the  ash-tree  'cos  of  frequent 
accidents — and  a  party  misdirected  of  'em."  Strange  to  sa}^ 
this  statement,  that  the  man  who  fell  in  could  not  swim,  did 
what  nothing  else  in  the  case  as  presented  had  been  able  to  do ; 
namely,  showed  Fred  what  an  utterly  false  hare  had  been  started 
by  that  incoherent  young  bicyclist  at  the  inn  at  Eipley.  Fancy 
his  Uncle  Dru,  famed  for  his  swimming  in  school  and  college 
records,  unable  to  get  himself  out  of  a  mill-pond ! 

Then  he  asked  the  question  that  he  should  of  course  have  asked 
old  Grewbeer  at  first.  "  What  was  the  name  of  this  man  who 
fell  in  the  water?"  The  reply  threw  a  light  on  one  corner  of 
the  misunderstanding.  "  He  was  the  Rev.  Soomat-or-other. 
Name  of  Sewell — or  Grooby — some  such  a  name !  Couldn't 
say." 

'  Fred  left  the  enlightenment  of  the  old  man,  as  to  the  motives 
of  his  enquiry,  to  chance,  or  to  his  wife,  as  might  be,  and  said 
what  he  believed  to  be  a  final  farewell  to  The  Cedars.     The 


216  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

place  had  been  the  motif  of  so  mucli  air-castle  building  in  the 
past  that  he  had  now  the  task  of  forgetting,  that  his  farewell 
was  not  without  a  mixed  feeling  liard  of  definition.  Was  it 
regret  ?    He  denied  it.     Still,  it  wasn't  exactly  rejoicing. 

He  was  at  least  sure  of  one  satisfaction,  that  it  was  farewell. 

Such  self-reproach  as  it  stimulated  might  be  a  thing  of  the 
past.  He  would  not  have  felt  so  sure  of  this  if  Mrs.  Grewbeer 
had  reported  a  rapturous  attitude  of  the  young  lady  visitor  of 
yesterday.  Keen  regret  on  her  part  at  the  collapse  of  the  scheme 
would  have  embarrassed  the  revelation  of  his  own  position  to  his 
friend,  the  prospect  of  which  was  already  a  discomfort  to  him. 

What  was  7iot  a  satisfaction  was  that  recurrence  of  the  illusion 
of  the  voice  calling  out  to  him  to  "  come  back,"  as  it  had  done 
before.  And  yet — why  illusion? — when  the  old  woman  heard  a 
shout  at  the  same  moment?  That  must  be  his  consolation. 
Because  no  one  ever  hears  or  sees  another  person's  hallucination. 
Therefore — this  is  real  reasoning,  you  know — what  Mrs.  Grew- 
beer heard  could  be  none  of  his  fancying.  That  was  all  he 
cared  about — to  be  kept  in  temper;  let  him  not  be  mad,  sweet 
Heaven!  He  had  not  quite  King  Lear's  excuses  for  delirium, 
but  he  was  beginning  to  feel  that  his  past  twelve  hours  were  so 
much  playing  fast  and  loose  with  sanity. 

The  world  was  swimming  about  a  good  deal  when  he  got  to 
Waterloo,  having  been  lucky  again  witli  an  up-train  from  Wim- 
bledon, and  he  felt  very  unsure  what  he  was  going  to  do  next. 
Go  to  Maida  Vale  in  a  hansom?  Of  course!  But  what  a  plight 
to  present  himself  to  his  mother  in !  He  caught  sight  of  him- 
self in  a  sheet  of  plate-glass  with  solid  darkness  behind  it,  and 
wondered  who  that  wasted,  haggard  chap  was.  For  he  was  not 
feeling  much  the  worse  physically.  Yet  all  his  powers  of  af- 
fecting equanimity  must  be  at  their  best  when  he  came  to  the 
telling  his  mother  of  the  trick  Fate  had  played  her;  conjuring 
awav  a  daughter-in-law,  without  a  hint  of  a  substitute!  Be- 
sides,  would  he  not  bo  late  for  breakfast — even  for  her  late 
breakfast?  He  looked  at  his  watch;  it  had  stopped  of  course, 
never  having  been  wound  up.  But  there  was  the  station  clock, 
and  it  was  nearing  half-past  ten.  Obviously,  a  case  for  a  wash- 
up,  boots  cleaned  by  macliinery,  and  breakfast  at  the  refresh- 
ment room,  however  much  the  young  ladies  at  the  buffet  seemed 
to  prefer  the  other  customers.  Fred  thought  to  himself  how  odd 
it  was  that  ever3'one  has  the  same  experience.  A  contradiction 
in  terms ! 

He  relented  to  his  breakfast,  consumed  it,  and  felt  better.     He 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  217 

might  have  let  himself  go  to  sleep — but  no,  that  was  not  safe ! 
Sleep  must  not  be  risked  till  after  lunch.  Who  could  tell  how 
he  would  feel  after  oblivion  ?  Most  of  us  have  had  the  experi- 
ence of  knowing  that  troubles  and  perturbations  are  best  dealt 
v/ith  on  the  nail — by  our  first  self,  as  it  were.  One  goes  to  sleep 
all  resolve  and  readiness  for  action ;  one  wakes  a  dejected  victim 
of  moral  cowardice  and  physical  irresolution — the  understudy'  of 
our  first-self,  who  always  falls  through  when  called  on. 

Besides — get  it  over !     That  was  the  thing  that  had  to  be  done. 
*'  Hansom !  " 


CHAPTER  XV 

"  It's  perfectly  ridiculous  in  me  lying  here,"  said  Nancy. 
"  Simple  self-indulgence  !  "  But  she  didn't  attempt  to  raise  her 
head  from  her  pillow. 

"  You  will  lie  still  till  Dr.  Culpepper  has  seen  you,  at  any 
rate.  If  he  lets  you  get  up — well,  he'll  be  responsible !  "  Thus 
Mrs.  Carteret;  not  uneasy  now  about  the  ^^ltimate  outcome  of 
this  accident,  and  not  the  least  fidgety  about  the  non-appearance 
of  Fred,  which  she  ascribed  partly  to  his  prejudice  against  this 
dear  girl,  who  after  all  will  be  his  sister-in-law.  Of  course  he 
went  back  to  his  chambers ;  and  will  most  likely  turn  up  to  lunch, 
in  a  couple  of  hours. 

"  Isn't  the  other  man's  word  sufficient — the  young  man's?  " 

"  ]\Ir.  Harrison's  ?  Quite  sufficient  to  satisfy  me  that  you'll 
be  all  right  in  a  day  or  two.  He  says  he'll  answer  for  your 
spine,  now." 

"  I  consider  that's  taking  a  great  liberty." 

"  I'm  very  much  obliged  to  him  for  taking  it.  Especially  as 
he  says  you  are  Dr.  Culpepper's  case,  and  he  has  nothing  to  do 
with  you.     We  shall  see  what  Dr.  Culpepper  has  to  say." 

The  case  murmurs  something  to  the  effect  that  Dr.  Culpepper 
is  only  an  old  fogy,  and  changes  the  subject.  "  Eric  must  be 
back  by  now  ?  "  she  says,  half  as  a  question. 

"  Oh  dear  yes !     He's  been  gone  quite  two  hours." 

"  And  he  was  sure  the  machine  was  all  right?  " 

"  Quito  sure.  All  but  a  spoke  of  the  hind-wheel  a  little 
jammed." 

"■  I'm  glad,  because  of  riding  it  back.  .  .  .  What ! — not  ride 
it  back  ?     You'll  see  I  shall  be  all  right  after  lunch." 

"  I  shall  see." 

"Well— you  !n7/./" 

"  Very  well.  I  shall."  This  conversation — during  which  it 
is  noticeable  that  the  patient,  who  is  making  such  bold  schemes, 
keeps  her  head  remarkably  quiet  on  the  pillow,  and  speaks  cau- 
tiously— arises  from  the  reference  to  Nancy's  brother  Eric,  who 
had  appeared  on  his  bike  at  eight  o'clock  in  the  morning,  to 
find  out  about  his  sister.  He,  of  course  in  ignorance  of  what 
he  should  hear,  and  only  knowing  that  she  had  not  come  home, 

218 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  219 

had  prefaced  his  enquiry  with  a  statement  that  he  knew  it  was 
awful  rot  to  get  in  a  blue  funk  about  people  who  didn't  come 
home,  because  they  always  turned  up  all  right  in  the  end,  and 
you  looked  like  a  Lot  of  Asses.  Nevertheless  he,  himself  un- 
moved, had  consented  to  run  over  and  ascertain  the  facts,  to 
soothe  the  nervous  terrors  of  "  his  people " ;  especially  his 
governor,  who  was  noted  for  unreasonable  fits  of  panic  under 
such  circumstances.  The  exact  expression  he  used  was  that 
the  aforesaid  governor  was  a  "  one-er  at  getting  in  a  stew," 
especially  about  the  girls;  but  that  his  own  calmer  judgment 
had  held  this  stew  to  be  great  rot.  He  seemed,  however,  relieved 
from  some  feeling  inconsistent  with  absolute  stoicism  when  he 
found  his  sister  able  to  talk,  with  no  fractured  limbs,  and  a 
guaranteed  spine.  For  Dr.  Harrison  had  only  just  ended  a 
flying  visit  of  enquiry. 

"  "WTiat  was  that  he  said  about  Cit  and  Fred  havincr  had 
words?"     Xancy  says  this,  as  a  corollary  to  Eric. 

Mrs.  Carteret  can  remember,  but  she  doesn't  seem  to  attach 
weight  to  it.  "He  described  it  as  a  shine,  I  think.  But  he 
added  a  note  of  explanation.  It  wasn't  exactly  a  scrap,  but  you 
might  call  it  a  scrum,  if  you  liked.  1  had  no  guide  to  a  choice 
of  language.     Probably  it's  nothing.     That's  their  way !  " 

"  How  I  do  enjoy  boys !  "  says  Nancy.  "  But  they  spoil  at 
sixteen.     I  hope  'Eic  will  last  another  twelvemonth." 

AYhat  a  blessing  it  is  that  one  can  neither  see  nor  hoar  what 
goes  on  at  a  distance !  Only  then,  to  be  sure,  one  has  to  hear 
of  it  after ! 

Dr.  Culpepper  came,  and  made  himself  very  unpopular  witii 
Nancy.  For  he  treated  her  intention  to  ride  back  to  Gipsy  Hill 
after  lunch  as  suicidal,  if  practicable;  though  probably  quite 
out  of  the  question.  Still,  while  she  condemned  the  doctor  as 
an  old  mollycoddle,  she  began  to  be  afraid  she  might  presently 
suspect  him  of  having  a  certain  amount  of  conventional  reason 
on  his  side.     Otherwise,  why  hold  so  fast  to  that  pillow? 

He  was  very  apologetic,  was  Dr.  Culpepper,  for  sending  such  a 
collapsible  nurse.  It  was  just  as  well,  on  the  whole,  that  she 
wasn't  particularly  wanted.  But  what  could  you  do?  There 
was  no  hard  and  fast  line  of  possibility,  in  resisting  that  in- 
sidious enemy.  Sleep.  The  only  rule  was  to  go  on  till  they  broke 
down,  and  blow  them  up  next  day.  Nancy  "  pointed  out  "  that 
if  there  was  no  nurse  she  wouldn't  break  down.  The  doctor 
assented,  but  would  not  admit  that  this  expedient  was  practicable 
in  all  cases.     All  he  could  say  was  that  this  one  had  seemed  as 


220  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

brisk  as  a  bee  at  the  Home.  "  How  brisk  is  a  bee?"  said  Mrs. 
Carteret,  with  misgivings  about  Insect  Life,  as  known  to 
proverbs. 

Dr.  Culpepper  was  quite  clear  about  one  thing — that  the 
more  the  patient  slept  the  better.  If  she  could  sleep  for  a  week, 
she  would  probably  be  ready  for  another  bicycle  accident  at  the 
end  of  it.  Mrs.  Carteret  said : — "  Suppose,  dear,  you  take  the 
doctor's  very  broad  hint,  and  go  to  sleep.  I  shall  go  out  and 
get  a  little  air  before  blaster  Fred  comes.  See ! — I'll  put  the 
hand-bell  here  and  tell  Lipscombe  to  run  the  minute  she  hears 
it."  Nothing  could  be  said  against  this,  and  she  and  the  doctor 
left  the  house  together.  He  rode  off  in  his  brougham,  and  she 
walked  towards  Regent's  Park,  countenanced  by  the  dachshund. 
His  attitude  towards  her  was  that  of  a  guardian  who  could  not 
give  her  his  whole  attention,  having  many  discriminations  to 
make  in  the  gutters  and  on  posts  and  basements.  When  whistled 
for,  he  ahvays  completed  the  matter  in  hand  before  giving  at- 
tention to  the  summons.  His  figure — if  that  term  can  be  applied 
to  him — lent  itself  to  deliberation. 

She  was  glad  to  be  alone  for  av/hile.  She  could  not  think  over 
old  times  among  new  associations,  and  her  mind  had  been 
wrenched  back  into  the  old  time  by  those  few  odd  words  of  a 
feverish  girl ;  spoken  in  sleep  too !  Why  should  these  incoherent 
words  set  her  thoughts  on  the  alert  to  rake  up  forgotten  events 
that  might  throw  a  light  on  that  early  story  of  her  husband's 
brother?     That  was  what  they  did. 

Possibly  it  was  because  the  words  were  sufficient  to  show  the 
nature  of  the  false  surmise  that  had  produced  them.  It  was 
not  an  unnatural  one,  after  all,  to  be  indulged  in  by  a  romantic 
Nancy.  She  could  look  it  in  the  face  without  Avincing,  because 
of  the  very  absurdity  of  it.  What  was  it,  after  all,  that  had  pre- 
sented itself  to  the  child's  mind  as  a  possibility?  That  her 
liusband's  older  brother  had  set  his  heart  on  her;  had  never 
declared  his  passion;  and  had  suppressed  it  when  he  found  the 
way  things  had  gone.  That  was  the  only  meaning  she  could 
devise  for: — "'She  was  the  girl  herself."  Not  so  very  far- 
fetched, when  all  was  said !  Where  would  the  absurdity  have 
been,  indeed,  had  she  been  even  nearing  womanhood  when  Dru 
first  set  eyes  on  her? 

The  obvious  basis  of  Nancy's  whole  flight  of  fancy  was  that 
speech  she  herself  had  repeated  to  her  of  her  mother's  that  it 
was  impossible  that  he  should  wed  now  with  this  widow-lady, 
who  would  have  filled  out  Fred's  theory  of  the  cause  of  the  dis- 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  221 

appearance  of  his  uncle.  What  obstacle  was  there,  of  a  legal 
sort,  to  any  marriage,  except  consanguinity?  And  what  con- 
sanguinities were  there  open  to  discussion  as  rendering  marriage 
impossible,  except  the  two  factitious  ones?  It  was  a  perfectly 
natural  mistake  for  Xancy  to  fall  into,  as  she  might  easily  con- 
jure up  a  completely  false  image  of  another  family's  relations 
thirty-odd  years  ago.  She  certainly  was  not  "  the  girl  herself !  " 
She  could,  and  did,  smile  at  the  idea. 

But  absurd  as  the  idea  was  in  itself,  it  had  power  to  infect 
her  mind  with  an  almost  morbid  tendency  to  reminiscence.  No 
one  survived  now  to  tell  her  the  story  of  that  early  love  of  her 
brother-in-law  which  had  jarred  on  his  life  and  thrown  its 
machinery  out  of  gear.  All  who  could  possibly  have  had  any 
knowledge  of  it  had  passed  away;  from  her  world,  at  any  rate. 
Xothing  was  now  left  for  her  but  speculation,  and  this  dear 
Nancy  girl's  preposterous  dream  was  responsible  for  it. 

She  asked  herself,  did  she  really  remember  the  very  first 
occasion  when  she  saw  Dru?  Ye-es — she  was  pretty  sure  of  it! 
And  one  thing  was  certain — that  on  that  day  he  cannot  have 
been  an  unrequited  lover,  unless  indeed  that  class  has  excep- 
tional powers  of  dissimulation.  For  on  that  day  she  remembered 
him  as  the  nucleus  of  a  sort  of  bundle  of  small  girls  and  boys — 
it  was  at  a  children's  party — whom  he  was  carrying  on  his 
shoulders,  while  their  friends  noisily  demanded  to  be  taken  too, 
contrary  to  all  physical  possibility.  She  could  recollect  at  this 
length  of  time — thirty-eight  years ! — his  big  voice  from  under 
the  legs  of  a  midget  who  was  holding  on  by  his  hair : — "  Now 
then,  children !  Add  yourselves  together  !  See  how  old  you  are, 
all  added  up !  "  And  then  afterwards,  when  the  creatures  had 
been  disentangled  from  him  with  shrieks  of  laughter,  his  com- 
ment on  the  achievement  to  two  Oxford  youths  whom  he  had  in 
charge.  "You  tell  them  that  at  Brasenose,  boys, — that  you  saw 
your  respectable  coach,  the  Rev.  Drury  Carteret,  run  round 
the  garden  with  forty-two  years  of  baby  on  his  shoulders."  That 
was  not  the  voice  of  a  saddened  and  disappointed  man  that  she 
could  recall  so  clearl}^  Nor  was  the  face  that  turned  to  hers 
afterwards  the  face  of  one.  What  was  it  he  said?  "You're 
the  kid  that  wouldn't  come,  aren't  you?  Why — how  old  are 
you  ?  "  She  remembered  saying  she  was  nearly  ten,  and  much 
too  old  to  carry ;  also,  that  she  felt  she  was  telling  stories,  being 
only  just  over  nine. 

That  fixed  the  time.  How  long  could  she  remember  him  after 
that,  without  any  observation  on  her  part  of  material  change, — 

15 


222  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

of  such  depression  as  must  have  resulted  from  so  severe  a  dis- 
appointment? She  could  not  follow  the  years  that  came  after; 
she  could  only  remember  the  general  order  of  things.  The 
colossal  young  parson  who  came  at  intervals  to  visit  his  parents 
next  door  was  the  Rev.  Mr.  Carteret.  Fred^  her  particular 
friend,  was  his  little  brother,  fourteen  years  his  junior ;  her  hus- 
band had  been  one  of  those  singular  late  arrivals  turning  up  for 
enrollment  a  good  five  years  after  recruiting  was  supposed  to 
have  ceased  for  good.  She  and  he  carried  on  a  long  corre- 
spondence at  that  period,  of  which  a  peculiar  feature  was  that 
the  sealed  letters  were  handed  from  one  to  the  other  over  the 
wall,  not  sent  by  post.  She  had  them  all,  carefully  tied  up  with 
a  blue  ribbon,  among  her  treasures  from  the  past.  She  had 
re-read  them  all,  more  than  once,  since  her  husband's  death ;  and 
had  been  amused,  in  a  sort  of  smileless  way,  at  the  frequent 
references  to  a  Secret  Society  which  flourished  in  those  days, 
whose  objects — secrecy  apart — were  undefined.  Even  that 
raison-d' Hre  seemed  likely  to  disappear,  when  the  Prospectus 
was  issued;  for  one  was  proposed,  and  was  the  subject  of  con- 
troversy about  Style.  She  could  remember  an  animated  discus- 
sion as  to  whether  Fred's  big  brother  "  should  be  told,"  or  should 
be  kept  in  darkness.  She  herself  was  in  favour  of  admitting 
him  to  the  knowledge  of  this  Society's  existence — the  only  dis- 
closure it  ever  had  to  make ! — when  he  came  up  from  Oxford 
to  stay. 

But  the  image  of  him  in  her  mind  during  those  unsuspicious 
years  of  infancy  was  the  image  of  a  person  who  was  a  matter- 
of-course.  All  of  us  can  remember  in  our  early  experience 
many  such  grown-ups  in  the  family  and  out  of  it,  and  the  story 
is  convinced  that  no  better  description  of  them  can  be  given. 
Are  we  fully  aware — we  oldsters — that  we  are  regarded  by 
youngsters  as  matters-of-course? — that  is  to  say,  as  persons  who 
must  be,  or  there  would  be  no  grown-up  people;  but  who  never 
were  properly  young,  by  hypothesis  ? 

She  felt  certain,  although  "•  Fred's  big  brother  "  was  an  in- 
determinate item  of  maturity  of  this  sort  in  those  three  or  four 
years  that  were  neither  childhood  nor  womanhood — those  years 
in  which  she  and  Fred  had  found  each  other  out,  but  she  at  least 
did  not  suspect  the  meaning  of  the  discovery — that  if  any  shadow 
fell  upon  the  young  clergyman's  life  at  that  time  it  made  no 
change  in  him  by  which  any  bystander  would  have  guessed  it. 
Eather,  her  memories  of  him — hazy  as  they  were — all  went  iu 
the   other   direction.      If  the  hopelessness   of  this  attachment. 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  223 

which  he  had  confided  later  to  her  mother,  was  brought  home 
to  him  during  that  period,  it  must  have  been  during  one  of  his 
long  absences  as  tutor  in  charge  of  reading  parties  of  young 
undergraduates.  This  would  have  given  him  time  to  shake  off 
visible  depression  and  make  an  effort  towards  concealment. 
But,  making  every  allowance  for  every  possibility,  she  could  not 
understand  a  disappointment — such  a  one  as  her  mother's  tale 
pointed  at — passing  over  a  young  man's  life  without  causing 
visible  change,  or  exciting  the  suspicion  of  any  of  his  own  family. 
For  her  mother  had  certainly  seemed  to  imply  that  she  herself 
was  the  sole  confidante  of  this  story.  Indeed,  she  was  almost 
certain  that  she  made  use  of  the  expression : — "  He  never  told 
anybody  else." 

Her  thoughts  travelled  on  to  the  time  that  followed — the  long 
period  of  her  own  engagement;  long  because  of  the  youth  of 
the  parties.  There,  Memory  was  on  the  alert,  bringing  from 
her  stores  any  quantity  of  raptures  and  despairs,  fears  and 
hopes;  precious  moments  easily  forgotten  then,  with  such  a 
future  to  forget  it;  tearfully  remembered  now,  with  such  a 
present  to  look  back  from !  But  they  were  of  little  service  to 
her  at  this  moment,  when  what  she  wanted  was  to  remember 
something  of  the  youth  of  the  brother  she  had  lost  so  strangely. 

She  was  not  to  be  allowed  to  continue  on  these  lines  of  reflec- 
tion undisturbed.  For  Mr.  Bagster  Sutcliffe,  the  husband  and 
father  of  her  visitors  of  yesterday,  crossed  her  path;  or,  rather, 
met  her  upon  it,  going  in  the  same  direction.  He  was  an  editor, 
and  his  newspaper  didn't  seem  to  want  editing  on  Monday,  till 
near  eleven  o'clock  at  least.  The  advertisement  manager  was 
at  work,  no  doubt,  and  that  was  half  the  battle.  For  nine-tenths 
of  the  battalions  were  advertisement,  and  if  the  human  race  is 
really  the  better  for  voluminous  misstatements  of  the  merits  of 
goods  for  sale,  the  Central  Sun  was  one  of  its  benefactors.  This 
editor  lived  at  St.  George's  Terrace,  Primrose  Hill;  and  liked 
walking  to  his  work  when  it  was  fine,  for  exercise.  But  he 
seemed  surprised  to  overtake  this  lady  and  her  dachshund. 
"  Wasn't  aware  you  took  an  early  walk,  Mrs.  Carteret,"  said  he. 

"  I  frequently  do,  in  fine  weather,"  she  replied.  "  But  I 
wasn't  able  to  do  so  to-day.  However,  I  have  had  the  advantage 
of  meeting  you,  Mr.  Sutcliffe." 

The  gentleman  would  have  liked  to  hit  back,  but  didn't  see 
his  way;  repartee  was  not  his  line.  He  probably  was  referring 
to  this  interview  when  he  said,  later  in  the  day,  that  some  women 
were  dam  -sharp ;  but  best  out  of  politics — best  out  of  politics ! 


224  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

He  changed  the  subject.  By-the-bye,  he  said,  he  had  been  made 
quite,  uneasy  that  morning  by  a  paragraph  in  the  newspaper,  but 
his  wife  had  been  able  to  assure  him  it  was  not  the  same  Car- 
terets.  .  .  .  He  was  pulled  up  short  by  an  expression  on  his 
hearer's  face. 

"  It  is  the  same  Carterets,"  said  she.  "  You  mean  the  para- 
graph about  the  disappearance  of  the  Rev.  Dr.  Carteret.  He  is 
my  brother-in-law."  She  knew  she  would  have  to  face  a  great 
deal  of  this  sort  of  thing.  Was  she  bound  to  do  more  than 
declare  the  facts,  drily?  What  a  relief  it  would  be  to  make  for 
any  solitude,  to  be  out  of  sight  and  hearing  of  her  tiresome 
species ! 

This  gentleman  seemed  an  undeserved  example  of  its  tire- 
someness. He  appeared  suddenly  paralysed  with  horror,  while 
at  the  same  moment  he  experienced  a  paroxysm  of  decision. 
*'  You  don't  say  that,  Madam !  "  he  exclaimed,  gasping  and 
glaring.     "  Why — good  Goard  !     Something  ought  to  be  done!" 

"  Quite  so  !  "  said  Mrs.  Carteret,  quietly.  "  The  only  question 
is — what?  My  son  and  I  have  every  reason  to  be  satisfied  with 
the  energy  and  intelligence  that  the  police  are  showing."  She 
said  this  rather  perfunctorily.  Had  they?  Did  she  not  mean 
that  she  and  Fred  had  been  unable  to  do  anything  themselves? 

The  editor  nodded  sagaciously  a  great  many  times.  "  You 
do  right,  Mrs.  Carteret,"  said  he,  "  to  rely  upon  the  efficiency  of 
the  police  force — especially  the  Detective  Department  in  Scot- 
land Yard."  He  brought  his  forefinger  into  action  to  emphasise 
this,  much  as  though  it  had  been  a  good  typical  example  of  an 
Inspector.  "  Rely  upon  it — you  may  take  my  word  for  this — 
that  if  there  is  anything  that  can  be  done,  the  police  will  do  it." 

As  Mrs.  Carteret  had  already  expressed  all  faith — short  of 
Fetichism — in  the  powers  of  the  Force,  she  merely  said : — "  I 
am  sure  they  will,"  rather  tepidly.  For  that  undredged  pond 
had  occurred  to  her.  She  added  suggestively  that  she  m"»at  not 
detain  Mr.  Sutcliffe,  and  she  had  to  get  home  herself. 

"  Yes !  "  he  said,  with  decision.  "  I  must  be  getting  on.  I 
am  late.  .  .  .  My  wife  will  be  most  concerned  to  learn  her 
mistake — that  it  is  not,  as  she  supposed,  710 1  the  same  Carterets. 
Most  concerned !  "  His  victim  thought  he  would  go  now ;  but 
he  didn't.  He  got  a  new  lease.  "  A  .  .  .  you  must  allow  me 
.  .  .  just  one  word!  My  wife  and  the  girls  were  so  delighted 
with  the  charming  visit  they  paid  you  yesterday.  They  have 
been  able  to  talk  of  nothing  else  ever  since.  Good-bye — good- 
bye— ^ooc?-bye !    I  must  Virry." 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  225 

Mrs.  Carteret  shook  hands  with  this  gentleman  without  ex- 
pressing a  hope  she  felt  that  this  phase  of  his  family's  life  would 
pass,  and  a  change  become  possible  in  their  conversation,  Liebig 
took  upon  himself  to  see  him  to  town,  and  had  to  be  whistled 
for.  He  stood  half-way  between  the  whistler  and  his  new 
acquaintance,  looking  from  one  to  the  other;  but  finally  decided 
that  the  former  had  a  prior  claim,  and  came  back  without 
undignified  haste.  Mrs.  Carteret  started  for  home,  without 
picking  up  the  lost  thread  in  her  musings.  Now  that  her  son  was 
so  very  much  overdue,  she  felt  there  might  be  another  uneasi- 
ness in  store  for  her.  Suppose  he  too  .  .  .  !  However,  surely 
that  was  a  trouble  she  need  neither  beg  nor  borrow. 

She  was  soon  at  ease  on  that  score.  For  as  she  turned  the 
corner  of  Hall  Place,  sure  enough  there  was  Fred,  waiting  at 
the  garden  gate  of  her  house.  He  saw  her  and  came  to  meet 
her.  Liebig  started  also  to  meet  him,  with  the  alacrity  of  a 
bolster. 

It  was  she  who  spoke  first.  But  she  only  said : — "  Why — 
Fred !  " 

He  said  : — "  Yes — anything  the  matter  ?  " 

She  answered : — "  Plenty's  the  matter.  But  it  wasn't  that. 
It  was  that  you  looked  so." 

'•'How  do  I  look?"  He  had  arrived  some  minutes  ago,  and 
had  heard  the  news  of  the  accident  from  Lipscombe.  He  fol- 
lowed his  mother  straight  into  the  house,  the  street  door  having 
been  left  standing  open  during  the  short  time  he  had  awaited 
her  outside.  He  glanced  at  his  image  in  the  mirror  over  the 
chimney-piece,  and  reported  on  himself.  "  I'm  all  right  enough,"^ 
he  said.  "What  is  it  that's  the  matter?  The  'plenty,'  I 
mean  ?  " 

"  That  poor  darling  girl.  She  was  as  nearly  killed  .  .  . 
But  Lipscombe  told  you,  I  suppose?  " 

"  Lipscombe  told  me  something." 

"  Well — she  had  the  narrowest  escape.  She  hadn't  gone  above 
half  a  mile — not  so  much — when   ..." 

"  Lipscombe  told  me.  But  she  said  the  doctor  had  seen  her 
and  she  would  soon  be  all  right.  She's  welcome  to  the  room.  I 
needn't  see  her,  I  suppose  ?  " 

"  You  needn't  see  her !  "  Mrs.  Carteret  repeated  her  son's 
words  in  a  puzzled  tone  of  voice.  It  meant : — "  I  cannot  see  why 
the  question  should  be  asked ;  "  not : — "  Why  should  you  ?  " 

"  I  mean,  of  course,  when  she's  up,"  said  Fred,  uneasily. 
"  But  I  must  get  on  to  town  as  soon  as  possible." 


226  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

Now,  this  speech  contained  a  nicety  in  language.  The  ex- 
pression "  get  on  to  town  "  implied,  temperately  but  decisively, 
that  Fred  had  spent  the  night  elsewhere;  had  in  fact  come  up 
from  the  country.  His  mother  saw  this  at  once.  "  Why,  where 
have  you  been?"  said  she.     "Did  you  stop  at  Norwood?" 

"  Oh  no.  No,  I  didn't  stop  at  Norwood."  He  spoke  in  a 
vague  sort  of  way,  which  might  have  meant  either : — "  Question 
me !  " ;  or : — "  It  is  no  concern  of  yours  where  I  stopped." 

Mrs.  Carteret  acted  on  the  first  interpretation.  "  Fred ! 
What's  the  matter?  Something's  the  matter.  .  .  .  You  have 
quarrelled."  For  she  remembered  the  boy  Eric's  serai-report 
of  a  shine,  or  scrum,  and  knew  it  must  have  meant  more  than 
an  ordinary  tiff. 

Fred  was  relieved  from  the  embarrassment  of  having  to  in- 
augurate his  disclosure — always  a  tax  on  one's  adroitness — and 
felt  he  could  speak  and  be  dignified.  After  all,  he  was  quite  a 
young  man.     "  Cintra  and  I  have  not  quarrelled.     But   ..." 

"But  what?" 

"  We  have  decided  that  it  is  better  for  both  of  us  that  we 
should  consider  our  engagement  at  an  end.  Perhaps  I  ought  to 
say — she  has  decided.     It  was  no  wish  of  mine." 

The  first  dozen  words  of  this  speech  pointed  to  an  everyday 
lovers'  quarrel,  which  their  hearer  might  have  laughed  at.  A 
shine  or  a  scrum !  Its  conclusion  stopped  her,  backed  as  it  was 
by  something  in  her  son's  appearance.  For  all  the  resources  of 
Waterloo  Main  Line  had  not  obliterated  the  marks  of  his  sleep- 
less night  and  its  excitements.  "  Is  it  so  serious  ?  "  said  she,  and 
waited  for  him  to  tell  her  more. 

But  his  reply  was : — "  It  is.  Perfectly  serious.  ...  If  you 
don't  mind,  I  would  much  rather  tell  you  some  other  time — 
some  time  later  ..." 

"  Just  as  you  please,  Fred  dear ! "  He,  however,  went  on 
explaining,  as  people  usually  do  when  they  have  announced  their 
intention  of  keeping  silence.  Their  decision — or  rather  her 
decision — had  turned  on  a  point  he  did  not  feel  free  to  talk 
about.  "  Even  to  you,  dear  mother !  "  said  Fred.  But  he  was 
a  little  disconcerted  at  her  saying,  as  one  who  recognises  the 
routine  of  events — no  otherwise : — "  Jealousy,  I  suppose  ?  " 

"  Not  in  the  ordinary  sense,"  said  Fred,  prompted  by  a 
chivalrous  feeling  toward  Cintra.  He  stopped  short  in  his 
justification,  from  an  uncertainty  about  the  non-ordinary  sense 
in  which  jealousy  figured  in  this  case.  It  was  more  easily 
hinted  at  than  grappled  with. 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  227 

His  mother  seemed  content  to  leave  niceties  about  jealousy  to 
be  dealt  with  later.  "  Just  please  tell  me,"  said  she,  "  what  you 
have  been  doing  with  yourself  all  night.  Where  have  you 
been?  " 

"  Who— I  ?     I  went  for  a  walk." 

"For  a  walk?     Where?" 

"  Oh,  Guildford  way.  Some  distance.  I  felt  like  a  long 
walk." 

"  You  foolish  boy !  And  now  you're  quite  worn  out.  You've 
been  walking  all  night.     That's  what  it  comes  to." 

"  I  sujDpose  it  comes  to  that.  But  it  was  good  for  me.  You 
know — I  don't  knock  up  easily.  Come,  Mother,  you  do  know 
that!"  Indeed,  the  reaction  of  his  feverish  attack  of  energy 
had  not  come  yet.  He  had  in  him  still  the  materials  for  a 
laugh  at  his  own  absurdity, — his  way  of  taking  a  disappointment. 
But  when  his  mother,  only  half  believing  him  in  earnest  even 
now,  expressed  her  incredulity,  he  put  this  spirit  of  levity  aside, 
saying  with  a  seriousness  she  could  not  doubt,  that  it  was  all 
over  between  him  and  Cintra.  She  was  not  to  blame  at  all,  and 
his  own  blame  for  himself  was  very  slight.  They  had  misunder- 
stood themselves  and  each  other,  and  the  wisest  thing  they  could 
do  now  was  to  dwell  on  the  past  as  little  as  possible.  His 
mother  wondered,  in  her  own  heart,  whether  the  young  lady  was 
taking  the  matter  equally  philosophically. 

"  Well,  my  dear  boy,"  she  said,  "  since  you  wish  me  not  to 
ask  questions  about  it,  I'll  ask  none — at  least,  not  just  yet  awhile. 
That's  what  you  mean,  isn't  it  ?  " 

"  That's  what  I  mean.  Full  particulars  some  of  these  days ! 
Just  now,  I'm  rather   ..." 

"  I  understand.  But  there's  one  thing.  .  .  .  You  must  for- 
give me,  Fred,  but  really — I  must  know  ..."  She  regretted 
the  necessity  for  making  her  son  the  partner  of  a  perplexity  she 
might  have  kept  to  herself.  But  how  avoid  it  ?  What  was  to  be 
said  to  Nancy?  There  was  that  poor  girl  in  the  next  room, 
probably  hearing  their  voices  through  the  wall,  and  anticipating 
a  cheerful  report  of  Upper  Norwood,  as  consolation  for  an  aching 
head.     Fred  must  determine  how  much  should  be  said  to  her. 

"  Oh— Elbows  ?  "  said  he,  unfeelingly.  "  Tell  Elbows  Cintra 
has  broken  it  off,  and  I'm  not  going  to  cry  my  eyes  out." 

His  mother  remonstrated.  "  Fred — dear !  I  can't  tell  her 
only  that.     She'll  want  to  know  more  than  that." 

"  Very  likely.  Then  she  must  wait  for  her  sister's  account  of 
it.     She'll  write — Cintra  will.     She  won't  come.  .    .   .  I  say ! '' 


228  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

"What?" 

"May  I  have  a  cigar  and  make  the  place  smell?  I  haven't 
had  a  smoke  yet." 

"  Certainly,  my  dear !  Smoke  as  much  as  you  like,  all  things 
considered !  " 

"  Yes — but  I  haven't  a  cigar.  My  Havanas  are  just  inside  the 
oak  cabinet  in  the  next  room,  and  that  young  woman's  there." 
Mrs.  Carteret  undertook  to  find  the  cigars. 

"  I  heard  Fred  had  come.  How  did  he  leave  them  last  night? 
Of  course  they  knew  nothing  about  my  smash  ?  "  Thus  Nancy 
to  the  cigar-seeker,  who  hoped  she  was  asleep,  and  was  proceeding 
furtively,  that  she  might  not  rouse  her. 

"  Of  course  not !  How  should  they  ?  He  knew  nothing  him- 
self till  I  told  him  just  now." 

"  Did  he  say  serve  me  right  ?  " 

"  Nonsense,  child !  However,  I  must  say  he  might  have  been 
more  sympathetic.  I  told  him  you  were  not  badly  hurt,  though, 
there's  that  to  be  considered." 

"  I  am  not  hurt  at  all.  How  are  the  lovers  getting  on?  Are 
they  quarrelling?  " 

Was  she  to  be  told,  or  not  ?  Mrs.  Carteret  ran  away,  to  avoid 
decision.  "  I'll  take  him  his  cigars,"  she  said.  "  I'm  coming 
back."  Then,  in  the  front  parlour  again,  talking  to  Fred,  she 
said: — "What  am  I  to  say  to  the  girl?  My  dear  boy,  3'ou  have 
no  idea  how  embarrassing  it  is." 

He,  lighting  his  cigar,  replied : — "  Say  there's  a  coolness. 
Don't  have  been  told  anything  about  it.  Why  should  you? 
Cintra  will  write  it  all  to  her — you  see  if  she  doesn't.  .  .  . 
But — stop  a  minute !  How  will  they  know  she  isn't  coming 
back?" 

"  That's  all  settled.  Her  brother  came  first  thing  this  morn- 
ing— the  boy  Eric.  He  has  got  back  by  now.  ...  Oh  dear 
yes,  long  ago!  But  he  did  not  know  that  anything  serious  be- 
tween you   ..." 

Fred  finished  the  sentence,  which  hung  fire : — "  Was  going  on? 
No — he  wouldn't.  Cintra  wouldn't  tell  him.  Besides,  he  came 
away  so  early — he  would  not  have  seen  her."  He  reflected  and 
smoked,  while  she  sat  silent;  then  said: — "No,  I  do  not  see. 
Mother  dear,  that  you  are  in  any  way  bound  to  know  anything 
at  all  about  it.     Bother  Elbows  !  " 

She  replied  quietly  : — "  It's  easy  to  '  bother  Elbows,'  dear ! — 
much  easier  than  to  look  in  her  face  and  answer  her  questions." 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  229 

And  Fred  felt  that  this  was  true,  and  in  his  secret  heart  was  not 
sorry  that  present  conditions  did  not  favour  an  interview  with 
the  young  lady  who  had  possession  of  his  apartment. 

The  hour  of  reaction  after  excitement  was  at  hand  for  Fred, 
and  it  came  after  his  mother  had  given  him  some  lunch.  In 
the  course  of  this  meal  he  passed  through  three  distinct  stages, 
the  first  of  pretence  that  he  didn't  want  anything  to  eat,  and 
could  discuss  his  unfortunate  love-affair  in  cold  blood,  with  the 
strictest  impartiality;  the  second,  the  natural  consequence  of 
his  scratch  breakfast  at  the  railway  station,  a  stage  of  ravenous- 
ness;  and  the  third,  one  of  fast-increasing  drowsiness  which 
began  by  strangling  loquacity,  and  ended  in  futile  struggles 
against  collapse,  so  palpable  that  his  mother  recognised  them 
candidly  and  told  him  that  the  sooner  he  lay  down  and  went 
sound  asleep  the  better.  He  accepted  the  resources  of  the  dining- 
room — a  sofa;  and  Lipscombe  was  instructed  to  abstain  swe  die 
from  clearing  away,  to  the  end  that  Mr.  Frederic  should  have 
his  sleep  out. 

Mrs.  Carteret  knew  it  would  be  impossible  to  keep  the  facts 
from  Nancy,  but  she  wanted  to  communicate  them  to  her  in 
such  a  way  as  to  favour  the  construction — if  Nancy  desired  it — 
of  their  pointing  to  nothing  worse  than  a  temporary  estrange- 
ment and  a  reconciliation.  So  she  thought  it  best  on  the  whole 
to  take  the  initiative.  If  it  was  "'  elicited  "  from  her,  all  the 
worse  for  her  chances  of  making  light  of  it! 

She  did  not  feel,  however,  that  any  alacrity  on  her  part  to 
return  to  the  subject  was  called  for ;  that  might  even  have 
defeated  her  object.  Equable,  philosophical  indifference  was  the 
safe  attitude,  with  an  absolute  unreluctance  to  talk  of  it  if 
invited  to  do  so.  Therefore,  when  Nancy  repeated  her  ques- 
tion:— "Didn't  Fred  tell  you  how  he  and  Cintra  are  getting- 
on?  Are  they  quarrelling?  " — she  responded  without  emotion  : — 
"  Yes — they're  quarrelling — at  present ;  "  the  implication  being 
that  she,  at  least,  had  no  belief  either  way  as  to  the  permanency 
or  intensity  of  the  quarrel. 

"  What  idiots  lovers  are !  "  said  Nancy. 

"  Proverbially  so,  my  dear !  "  said  Mrs.  Carteret. 

"  What's  it  all  about,  this  time?  " 

"  The  usual  thing,  I  believe.  Fred  had  been  looking  at  some 
other  young  lady." 

"Not  Mr.  Snaith's  Lucy?"  The  first  word  was  fired  off  like 
a  gun.  Mrs.  Carteret  had  had  experience  of  her  young  friend's 
penetration,  but  she  was  taken  aback.     She  had  been  under  the 


230  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

impression  that  the  powerful  effect  produced  by  Mr.  Snaith's 
Lucy  on  her  son  had  been  visible  to  no  one  but  herself;  because 
Nancy,  though  she  had  testified  to  her  sister's  wroth  against  the 
beauty,  had  never  seemed  alive  to  that  effect  from  any  personal 
observation.  Although  certainly  she  had  shown  that  she  was  not 
in  the  dark  about  possibilities,  she  had  not  included  in  them  a 
fluctuation  in  the  stability  of  an  attachment  nearly  two  years 
old,  under  the  witchery  of  a  mere  pair  of  black  eyes.  Nancy's 
pounce  on  a  definition  of  what  the  usual  thing  was,  in  this  case, 
had  shown  that  she  must  have  been  conscious — or,  sup- 
pose we  say,  subconscious? — of  Fred's  susceptibility  to  their 
influence. 

Mrs.  Carteret  merely  noted  that  her  young  friend  was  probably 
awake  to  the  facts,  and  did  not  pry  into  her  mind.  "  How  can 
I  tell  whether  it  was  Mr.  Snaith's  Lucy,  or  someone  else's  Lucy  ?  " 
said  she,  as  though  the  individual  was  a  matter  of  little  moment. 
Lovers'  fancies — all  delusion  ! 

"  They'll  come  all  to  rights — make  it  up  again.  See  if  they 
don't !  "  Nancy  kept  that  head  of  hers  very  still  on  the  pillow, 
and  seemed  careful  not  to  open  her  eyes.  Also,  her  words  came, 
as  it  were,  cautiously — rather  on  tiptoe.  Mrs.  Carteret  knew 
exactly  what  she  felt  like. 

Yes,  that  was  the  best  frame  of  mind  to  encourage,  clearly. 
They  would  make  it  up  again.  Nothing  would  result  from  this 
shine  or  scrum.  No  bystander  need  fret  or  interfere.  Mrs. 
Carteret  said  nothing  to  Nancy  of  how  Fred  had  walked  about  all 
night  over  it,  nor  of  how  he  had  gone  to  sleep  on  the  sofa  in 
{he  dining-room.  It  would  only  have  made  her  feel  herself  an 
intruder.  It  was  rather  satisfactory  to  have  this  excuse  for 
omitting  what  seemed  likely  to  accentuate  the  seriousness  of 
the  situation. 

The  Fred  who  woke  up  on  that  sofa  the  best  part  of  two  hours 
later  was  a  very  different  Fred  from  the  one  that  may  be  said 
to  have  swaggered  into  an  abrupt  half-hour's  nap,  warranted  to 
awake  refreshed,  confident  that  rest  would  renew  in  him  a  philo- 
sophical spirit,  which  would  look  the  facts  of  life  straight  in 
the  face,  and  garner  the  fruits  of  experience  for  Judicious  con- 
sumption in  the  future.  He — the  awakener — was,  on  the  con- 
trary, a  woebegone  parody  of  his  former  self,  an  abject  second 
volume  with  a  Table  of  Discontents  at  the  beginning  and  an 
Index  that  referred  the  reader,  on  self-perusal,  to  nothing  but 
misprints.  He  was  not  over-certain,  for  an  unpleasant  minute 
or  two,  what  manner  of  thing  he  was,  or  what  had  happened  to 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  231 

it.  He  could  only  stretch  himself  and  rub  his  eyes  and  wait  for 
reluctant  Memory  to  re-form  the  world  he  had  to  live  in. 

He  knew  there  was  a  rock  ahead  that  he  could  nowise  steer 
clear  of — the  communication  of  his  altered  circumstances  to 
Charley  Snaith.  He  gradually  changed,  from  mere  misgiving 
as  to  how  he  should  word  it,  to  a  fixed  desire  to  get  the  Job  over. 
But  what  a  tale  to  have  to  tell !  No  ancient  dwelling-madhouse 
or  sanehouse — to  convert  into  two  air-castles  at  pleasure.  No 
front  drive  common  to  both,  through  lawn  and  garden-bed  ring- 
ing changes  all  the  year  on  all  the  Botany  he  didn't  know  the 
names  of,  from  the  first  violet  to  the  last  chrysanthemum !  No 
grounds  of  an  acre  and  a  quarter  in  the  rear,  large  enough. to 
lay  out ;  large  enough  to  show  visitors  over — almost !  No  oaken 
stairways  for  their  mistresses  to  be  graceful  on,  with  light  and 
shade  effects.   .    .    . 

He  shrank  suddenly  from  his  own  mind — which  the  story  is 
following — at  this  point.  For  he  found  that  one  of  two  images, 
of  the  two  possible  mistresses,  on  the  two  actual  staircases,  was 
dim;  while  the  other  was  vivid,  and  displaced  it.  He  felt  a 
traitor  to  his  friend,  more  than  to  the  displaced  image,  at  the 
vividness  of  the  dark-eyed  image  which  had  ousted  it.  He  tried 
to  refer  this  activity  of  his  imagination  to  Cintra's  own  decision 
to  end  their  engagement,  and  was  not  so  successful  as  he  could 
have  wished.  Was  that  decision,  after  all,  an  arbitrary  outcome 
of  a  groundless  jealousy?  He  thrust  the  question  aside,  angrily. 
But  he  never  answered  it. 

Although  tea  was  beginning  to  be  spoken  of  as  a  possibility 
very  shortly  after  he  awoke,  he  did  not  wait  for  its  appearance, 
but  went  away  to  his  chambers.  The  presence  of  Nancy  in 
the  house  was  an  embarrassment  to  him,  although  it  was  safe 
enough  not  to  reach  interview-point.  He  had  always  felt  her 
an  embarrassment,  considered  merely  as  a  provisional  blood- 
relation,  ratified  by  occasional  ungracious  pecks.  But  a  dis- 
embodied sister-in-law ! — that  was  what  he  felt  she  was.  He 
would  find  plenty  to  do  at  his  rooms — letters  to  write  and  what 
not — till  Charley  made  his  appearance  from  the  office.  An 
uncomfortable  thought,  now!  Nevertheless,  he  screwed  up  his 
courage,  and  went. 

He  found  plenty  to  do,  and  did  none  of  it.  He  was  altogether 
too  desceuvre  even  for  the  simplest  letter-writing.  As  for  turn- 
ing to  on  the  provisional  specification  of  the  Non-Vibratory 
Engine,  that  was  entirely  out  of  the  question.  He  felt,  as  he 
looked  at  the  clean,  completed  elevations  of  it,  that  had  been  a 


232  TEE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

joy  to  his  soul  on  Saturday,  that  the  condition  of  his  mind 
towards  them  was  painfully  near  to  a  working  version  of  Igno- 
rance— something  at  least  that  answered  the  purpose  in  practice. 
If  your  brain  swims  and  you  can't  know  anything,  you  know  as 
little  of  the  trade  you  learned  in  boyhood  as — for  instance — the 
Average  Man  knows  of  Aramaic.  Fred's  brain  swam ;  or  rather, 
perhaps,  sank — for  the  swimmer  at  least  strikes  out — as  he  gazed 
vacantly  at  what  had  been  so  keen  an  interest  to  him  only  last 
week.  He  had  actually  made  those  drawings !  All  the  con- 
cession he  could  make  to  them  now  was  that  he  would  not  tear 
them  up.  However,  he  might  do  so  even  now  if  he  looked  at 
them  too  much.  The  only  safety  was  in  passivity — silence  and 
waiting.  Suppose  he  went  out  for  another  wallc,  a  short  one 
this  time,  just  to  get  through  the  hour  or  so  that  must  pass 
before  his  friend's  return.  Yes — that  would  do ! !  And  he 
could  leave  a  note  in  Charley's  letter-box  to  stop  his  running  away 
if  he  found  no  one.  He  wrote : — "  If  I'm  not  back  when  you 
come  in,  don't  go  away  without  seeing  me.  I  have  something 
to  .  .  . "  he  paused  here ;  he  wanted  to  hint  that  the  something 
was  serious,  and  "  something  to  tell "  might  mean  either  good 
news  or  bad.  He  could  not  find  a  phrase  that  exactly  met  his 
requirements,  and  got  bewildered  in  the  choice  of  one.  Every 
one  he  thought  of  seemed  either  jocular  or  tragic^  and  he  wanted 
to  avoid  both.  He  shook  his  head  at  intervals,  as  one  thing  after 
another  offered  itself  and  was  condemned.  He  decided  on 
crossing  out  "  have  something  to,"  and  making  it  read,  "  I 
want  to  talk  to  you."  It  didn't  read  right,  but  he  had  to  come 
to  a  decision. 

Then  he  found  himself  loitering  in  the  Temple  Garden,  listen- 
ing to  a  bird.  It  was,  like  enough,  the  same  bird  that  was 
singing  there  just  a  year  ago,  when  he  and  Charley  got  the  two 
girls,  Cintra  and  Nancy,  to  come  to  tea  at  their  rooms  and  be 
taken  all  about  and  shown  things.  His  engagement  was  then 
not  six  months  old,  and  everything  was  rose-coloured.  It 
seemed  a  thousand  years  ago  now;  but  vividly  clear,  like  some 
of  the  earliest  memories  of  youth.  What  was  a  keen  discomfort 
to  his  soul — almost  a  nightmare — was,  not  so  much  the  loss  of 
that  bewitching  phase  of  early  love,  as  the  terrible  thoroughness 
with  which  it  had  vanished.  And  so  suddenly !  But  a  few 
weeks  since — although  perhaps  they  had  steadied  down  a  little 
latterly — he  and  Cintra  were  still  in  a  land  of  enchantment, 
laying  out  imaginary  rose-gardens  in  other  lands  that  awaited 
their  arrival.     Were  all  man's  garments  woven  by  him  only  that 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  233 

he  might  be  clothed  with  derision?  Did  he  never  reap  the  har- 
vest of  his  own  sowing,  except  indeed  to  find  the  wheat-ears 
empty,  and  the  plants  run  to  leaf?  Were  all  our  dolls  stuffed 
with  sawdust? 

Where  was  the  life  that  late  they  led?  It  was  there  but 
yesterday,  in  outward  seeming  at  least,  when  he  started  away 
for  Norwood  in  the  fresh  hours  of  a  Sunday  morning  in  May, 
meeting  scarcely  a  soul  but  milkmen  and  early  communicants. 
He  could  not  recall  that  his  anticipations  of  a  joyous  greeting 
from  her  on  his  arrival  were  lukewarm,  as  he  surrendered  his 
railway  ticket  at  Gipsy  Hill  Station  to  a  station  master  who 
returned  him  the  crossed  half  he  had  just  found  unused  in  his 
waistcoat  pocket,  as  he  locked  his  office  up  for  its  Sunday  morn- 
ing rest.  In  fact,  the  effect  this  exploded  ticket  had  on  him  was 
to  bring  back  his  expectation  of  Cintra,  fresh  and  living  as  the 
May  morning  itself,  and  all-powerful — yes,  that  certainly  liad 
been  so ! — to  banish  by  her  presence  suspicions  of  any  other 
image  than  her  own.  It  was  Fred's  own  Self  that  he  spoke  to, 
and  that  Self  did  not  disclaim  the  suggestion  he  had  imputed 
to  it.  He  felt  piqued  at  its  lack  of  alacrity  to  do  so.  For  so 
far  from  helping  himx,  that  Self  kept  silence  lest  it  should  say : — 
**  Yes — you  had  your  reason  for  wanting  Cintra's  power  over  you 
to  assert  itself,  to  protect  you  against  that  other  identity  that 
was  working  to  estrange  you  from  her."  If  this  is  a  little  com- 
plex, let  him  who  reads  this  story  reflect  what  a  complex 
thing  the  human  mind  is,  and  look  leniently  upon  its 
difficulties. 

Fred  threw  the  half  railway  ticket  away,  as  though  by  doing 
so  he  could  also  throw  away  the  train  of  thought  it  had  sug- 
gested, and  walked  away  to  be  out  of  sight  of  it.  But  it  hap- 
pened to  attract  the  notice  of  some  juveniles  who  had  found 
their  way  into  the  Garden,  in  the  belief  that  their  presence 
would  be  tolerated  by  Authority,  so  long  as  they  didn't  pluck 
the  flowers  or  walk  on  the  grass,  but  with  reservations  of  inten- 
tion to  do  both  if  the  absence  of  Authority  could  be  relied  on. 
They  were — if  pronounced  as  by  their  family  connection — 
Heaverarris  and  her  boyby,  or  more  properly  her  mother's 
boyby,  she  being  only  eleven,  and  her  little  brother  Tommyarris, 
who  was  not  yet  six.  This  young  man,  catching  sight  of  the 
railway  ticket  where  it  fell,  picked  it  up  and,  acting  under 
instructions  from  his  sister  Heaver,  pursued  the  gentleman  who 
had  apparently  dropped  it,  and  held  it  out  towards  him  without 
explanation. 


234  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

"Well,  old  chap!"  said  Fred.  "Is  that  for  me?  What's 
your  name?  "  He  didn't  want  to  know.  He  only  asked  to  make 
conversation;  but  he  was  told  a  name,  not  over  distinctly.  He 
guessed  particulars,  rightly.  "Thomas  Harris — is  that  it? 
.    .    .   Well,  /  don't  want  it?     You  may  have  it." 

But  the  youth  was  not  prepared  to  have  the  goods  returned 
on  his  hands  in  that  way.  He  began  a  confused  statement,  from 
which  Fred  gathered  that  he  was  endeavouring  to  cite  his  sister 
as  an  authority  for  something  inaudible.  He  repeated  several 
times : — "  Moy  sister  Heaver — moy  sister  Heaver — "  and  then 
stopped  suddenly,  pointing.     "  That's  her,"  said  he. 

"Oh,  that's  your  sister  Eva,  is  it?  Very  well,  Thomas 
Harris.     Now  what  does  your  sister  Eva  say?  " 

Thomas  Harris  removed  from  his  mouth  a  thumb,  sucked 
clean,  which  had  been  one  of  the  chief  causes  of  his  inaudibility ; 
and  said,  not  without  a  kind  of  distinctness: — "Moy  sister 
Heaver  said  a  hoy'p'ny." 

Fred  understood  that  he  was  expected  to  produce  this  sum  in 
exchange  for  the  void  and  valueless  ticket  he  had  thrown  away. 
He  pointed  out  that  the  ticket  was  useless  to  him ;  but,  he  said, 
he  was  not  prepared  to  disappoint  Thomas  Harris,  who  had  had 
no  means  of  knowing  this,  and  had  acted,  no  doubt,  in  perfect 
good  faith.  He  handed  the  amount  to  the  claimant,  with  the 
words : — "  There,  that's  for  you,  Thomas  Harris ;  "  and  then,  con- 
sidering the  incident  closed,  walked  away  towards  the  Embank- 
ment, leaving  Thomas  standing  gazing  after  him,  with  his  thumb 
replaced  for  further  cleaning. 

He  found  a  seat  near  Cleopatra's  Needle,  and  tried  to  banish 
all  the  haunting  ideas  the  last  twenty-four  hours  had  left  him 
as  an  unwelcome  inheritance.  He  tried  to  think  of  Cleopatra, 
who  surely  was  far  off  enough  from  any  of  them.  In  vain! 
For  the  first  tliought  of  licr  and  her  appearances  in  literature 
suggested  the  question — was  she  dark  or  was  she  fair?  Was  she 
— for  instance — like  Cintra?  Or  was  she  like  ...  He  made 
a  resolute  effort  to  drive  the  first  face  that  came  to  him  out  of 
his  mind,  and  substitute  some  other  than  Lucy  Hinchliffe's. 
Remember  that  to  the  conscience  of  this  unhappy  young  man  the 
slightest  concession  to  the  witchery  of  that  young  lady  was  an 
act  of  disloyalty  to  Charley  Snaith,  his  fast  friend  of  so  many 
long  years.     He  might  have  recalled  Browning's  lines : — 

"  One  should  master  one's  passions — love,  in  chief, — 
And  be  loyal  to  one's  friends." 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  235 

But  he  stopped  them  on  the  threshold  of  his  mind.  For  he 
could  not  admit  them  without  admitting  also  that  they  had  been 
justified  in  knocking  at  his  door.  He  angrily  resented  their 
intrusion. 

A  fig  for  Cleopatra !  A  mummy,  long  ago,  more  likely  than 
not.  He  jumped  up  from  the  seat,  and  turned  to  go.  But  he 
was  confronted  by  Thomas  Harris — if  the  phrase  can  be  used 
of  a  fraction  face  to  face  with  an  integer — who  had  tracked  him 
down  with  a  defined  purpose.  Fred  had  to  give  attention  to  his 
statement  to  discover  it.  It  sounded  somewhat  like  this : — ''  You 
divved  me  vis  hoy'p'ny  faw  me.  I  wants  anuvver  hoy'p'ny  faw 
my  sister  Heaver.  Vat's  her,  wiv  boyby,  free-munce."  His 
last  words  as  he  pointed  her  out — which  he  evidently  looked  upon 
as  so  much  distinction,  like  K.C.B.  or  F.E.S. — meant  the  age 
of  the  baby. 

"  I  fear,"  said  Fred,  "  that  you  are  an  impostor  and  an 
extortioner.  But — as  Baby  is  only  three  months  old — I  will  give 
you  another  hoy'p'ny.  It  doesn't  follow,  strictly,  but  we  mustn't 
be  too  particular."  Thomas  accepted  the  second  halfpenny  and 
ran  away  to  his  sister  Eva,  bearing  a  coin  in  either  hand.  It 
appeared  then  to  Fred  that  Eva  blew  Thomas's  nose  for  him, 
after  taking  charge  of  his  halfpenny  as  well  as  her  own,  and 
departed  with  an  appearance  of  having  thought  of  an  investment. 

Charley  Snaith  would  be  back  in  half  an  hour  now.  He 
turned  to  go  to  the  chambers.  But  there  was  plenty  of  time  to 
take  it  easily.  Good  Lord,  yes!  Four-forty-five!  He  put  his 
watch  back  in  its  pocket,  and  sauntered.  In  fact,  he  walked 
farther  than  he  need  have  done,  to  spin  out  the  time. 

Whenever  one  has  anything  to  communicate  of  importance,  be 
it  sad  or  joyous,  one  is  pretty  sure  to  dwell  on  the  ways  and 
means  of  the  communication ;  sadly  or  joyously,  as  may  be.  And 
nothing  is  more  certain  than  the  way  our  forecast  never  comes 
about.  The  good  news  gets  blurted  out  before  its  time;  all 
one's  neat  tropes  and  clever  climaxes  are  lost.  And  the  bad  news 
gets  the  bit  in  its  teeth  and  carries  one  away — it  guessed  at 
once  from  one's  too  visible  self-command,  that  one  flatters  one- 
self is  so  sure  to  serve  us  at  our  need.  Even  so  Fred  was  at 
work  on  his  fiftieth  mental  rehearsal  of  his  probable  revelation 
to  his  friend  when  all  his  elaborations  were  upset  by  a  hansom 
whose  fare  was  shouting  to  its  driver  to  stop.  For  the  fare  was 
Charley  himself,  wild  with  excitement  beyond  what  a  reasonable 
Briton  shows  merely  because  he  identifies  a  friend  in  the 
street. 


236  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

"Hoy — stamp!  Why  the  devil  don't  you  stop?  .  ,  ,  Here, 
Fred,  come  along  in !  I  have  got  a  bit  of  news  for  you.  .  ,  . 
Whereto? — wliy,  where  I  told  you, — thirteen,  Bolt  Court  .  .  ." 
This  of  course  was  to  the  driver,  enquiring  through  the  ceiling. 
"  If  my  bit  of  news  doesn't  make  you  sit  up  and  think,  nothing 
ever  will.  Now  guess !  "  He  seized  Fred's  arm  and  fixed  his 
eyes  on  his  face,  waiting.  He  was  quite  beside  himself  with 
exultation  at  this  thing,  whatever  it  was. 

"  My  uncle's  found !  "  Would  not  this  have  been  any  man's 
guess,  all  his  surroundings  being  Fred's  at  the  moment?  The 
young  man's  face  beamed.  This  was  a  noble  makeweight  to  all 
the  miseries.     The  cloud  had  lifted. 

But  Charley's  exultation  was  destined  to  end  abruptly.  He 
went  quite  pale  and  his  breath  caught  as  he  said : — "  My  God — 
the  fool  I  was,  not  to  see  that !  " 

"  Why — what — what — what  is  it  ?     Tell  me,  old  chap !  " 

"  Dear  old  boy !  I'm  more  sorry  than  I  can  tell  you.  But 
-    .    .   but  it  isn't  your  uncle.     I  only  wish  it  were." 

Fred  felt  exactly  as  if  a  heavy  blow  on  the  head  had  left 
him  dizzy.  But  he  saw,  through  his  dizziness,  that  his  first 
duty  was  towards  his  friend.  He  must  save  him  from  the  idea 
that  lie  had  caused  needless  pain,  at  any  cost  in  fibbing.  He 
really  managed  a  very  creditable  laugh,  all  things  considered. 
""  I  didn't  believe  it,  you  know,"  said  he.  He  utilised  a  slight 
flash  of  misgiving  that  he  had  shut  liis  eyes  to  a  few  seconds 
since.  "  You  wouldn't  have  said,  '  now  guess ! '  about  that. 
Now  would  you?  " 

"No — I  shouldn't.     Of  course  I  shouldn't.   ..." 

"  Let's  have  the  good  piece  of  news.  Out  with  it ! "  He 
thought  it  best  to  assume  an  air  of  genial  incredulity. 

"  Wait  till  you  hear,  you  unbelieving  Thomas.  You  know 
that  Lucy  and  I  had  fixed  Sunday  to  go  and  look  over  the 
Madhouse?     Well,  we  went." 

"  And  the  day's  fixed  ?     Is  that  it  ?  " 

"  Shut  up !  Wait  till  you  hear.  We  examined  the  house  from 
garret  to  cellar.    ..." 

"  And  she  didn't  like  it  because  of  Mr$.  Grewbeer's  sink." 

"  How  did  you  know  that  ?  " 

"  Never  you  mind  !     Go  on — I'll  tell  you  presently." 

"  Very  well — me  first,  then !  We  examined  the  house,  and 
Lucy  did  some  capital  pretending — regularly  took  me  in.  ,  .  . 
WTiat  for?  Why,  don't  you  see?  One  should  always  run  down 
what  one  wants  to  buy,  and  crack  up  what  one  wants  to  sell." 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  237 

"  Right  you  are !  Like  bulls  and  bears  on  the  Stock 
Exchange.     Cut  along." 

"  No — it's  too  good  to  tell  in  a  hurry.  .  .  .  Yes — this  house 
— any  house — what  does  it  matter?"  This  was  to  the  cabman, 
who  insisted  on  fulfilling  his  mission,  backing  his  cab  into  the 
kerbstone  in  the  effort  to  obtain  his  ideal  of  stopping  at  a  door, 
a  thing  not  achieved  until  a  line  drawn  at  right  angles  to  the 
diagonals  of  that  door  passes  through  the  cab's  centre  of  gravity. 

"  Xow,  we  may  as  well  have  tea  before  you  tell  your  news," 
says  Fred.  He  was  as  cool  as  that  over  it;  or  perhaps  it  w^as 
that,  now  his  own  revelation  was  so  soon  inevitable,  he  was  glad 
to  catch  at  any  pretext  to  postpone  it ;  ever  so  little.  Anyhow, 
the  two  were  enjoying  the  output  of  his  gas-kettle  before  he 
gave  his  friend,  whom  he  had  stopped  in  one  or  two  false 
starts,  leave  to  go  on  with  his  story.  "  Xow  for  it,  old  chap !  " 
said  he,  lighting  a  cigarette. 

Charley  sipped  his  tea  with  an  eye  on  his  hearer,  not  to  miss 
any  of  the  effect  of  his  communication.  "  Now  for  it !  "  said  he. 
"  Where  was  I  ?  .  .  .  Oh  yes — we  went  over  the  house,  and  I 
assure  you  I  was  regularly  taken  in.  I  thought  Lucy  hated  the 
place.  Judge  of  my  surprise,  then  .  .  .  Sounds  like  a  narra- 
tive, don't  it?     In  a  book,  you  know." 

"Go  ahead!     'Judge  of  your  surprise'   ..." 

"  When  Lucy  turned  round  to  me  in  the  trap,  and  said : — 
'  I'm  going  to  buy  that  house,  Charles,'  I  was  taken  aback 
because,  don't  you  know,  it  was  rather  sudden." 

"  Very."  There  was  in  Fred's  manner  just  enough  of  the 
effect  the  news  had  had  upon  him — for  was  this  a  new  embar- 
rassment, in  view  of  what  he  himself  was  keeping  back? — to 
make  its  teller  feel  a  sort  of  chill.  It  was  not  the  acclamation  of 
delight  he  had  looked  forward  to. 

The  interpretation  he  put  upon  it  was  the  wrong  one.  But 
it  was  absolutely  the  only  one  possible  to  his  complete  unsus- 
picion  of  what  his  friend  had  to  tell  him.  He  took  its  accuracy 
for  granted,  past  all  question.  "'  That  was  exactly  what  crossed 
my  mind  immediately,"  said  he.  "  The  answer  I  made  to  Lucy 
was  'Fred  won't  like  that';  and  I  explained  to  her  that — well! 
— that  you  would  want  to  be  in  it.  It  would  have  to  be  a  joint- 
stock  job,  or  nothing." 

"  Or  nothing,"  said  Fred. 

Charley  took  the  parched  way  in  which  lie  spoke  to  be  a  mere 
expression  of  his  decision  not  to  be  out  of  it.  "  Or  nothing,"  he 
repeated.     "  I  rubbed  that  well  in.     But — stop  a  minute  and  let 

16 


238  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

me  tell  you."  For  Fred  was  going  to  speak.  "  She  gave  me  all 
her  reasons,  and  I'm  sure  you'll  admit  .  ,  .  No — do  shut  up, 
old  chap,  and  let  me  finish  what  she  said.  She  said : — '  Is  not 
Mr.  Carteret  dependent  on  the  permission  of  his  trustee,  or  some- 
body's trustee  ? '  Her  expression  was  '  Trusteeship  has  to  be 
fiddled  with,  somehow.'  I  explained  to  her  that  you  were  certain 
there  would  be  no  difficulty  there,  when  the  whole  scheme  was 
laid  before  Dr.  Carteret.  ''But,'  said  she,  '  when  will  the  scheme 
be  laid  before  Dr.  Carteret?'  I  said  as  soon  as  he  came  back, 
which  of  course  must  be  very  soon,  unless  ..." 
"  Go  on." 

"  Well,  she  pulled  me  up  short,  repeating  my  words,  '  Very 
soon,  unless!  Unless  what?  Can  you  answer  for  how  soon? 
And  suppose  in  the  meanwhile  someone  cuts  in  and  buys  the 
house  ? '  I  was  obliged  to  admit  that  this  would  be  very  dis- 
appointing and  awkward.  Then  she  said — and  I  think,  Fred, 
you'll  see  from  this  how  reasonable  and — a — in  fact  generous 
Lucy's  motives  are," — Fred  threw  in  a  chorus  of  assent  and  ap- 
proval— "  she  said  it  would  merely  be  the  question  of  her  mother 
writing  a  cheque,  which  she  could  do  as  easily  as  not — I  believe 
that  is  the  case,  when  it's  only  four  figures — and  then  an  arrange- 
ment could  be  made.  I  should  have  to  find  out  what  to  call  it. 
If  I  couldn't,  where  was  the  use  of  my  being  a  solicitor?  Ha, 
ha,  ha !  " 

Fred's  echo  was  perfunctory;  a  very  cheerless  laugh  by  com- 
parison. Charley  set  this  down  to  his  own  timid  indulgence  in 
the  hypothesis  that  the  Doctor's  disappearance  was  final.  He 
could  not  tie  himself  to  the  pretence  that  reappearance  was 
certain  in  the  nature  of  things.  Fred  was  profuse  in  his 
acknowledgments  of  Miss  Hiuchliffe's  generosity;  so  much  so 
that  Charley,  in  the  interests  of  truth,  made  a  sub-remark: — 
'•'  Of  course  it  is  her  mother's  money.  But  I  suppose  it  comes  to 
the  same  thing."  Fred  said :— "  Same  in  principle,  anyhow." 
He  added  a  special  tribute  to  the  elder  lady,  as  an  obvious 
inference  from  her  cheque-writing  faculty : — "  Miss  Hinchliffe's 
mother  must  be  the  right  sort." 

"  I  say,  Fred.  I  wish  you'd  call  her  Lucy.  To  oblige  me !  " 
«  Well — Lucy's  mother,  then.  It's  a  mere  question  of  usage." 
"  I'll  call  Cintra  '  Cintra,'  you  know,  as  a  set-off.  I  will,  upon 
my  word.  .  .  .  What's  that?"  For  Fred  was  saying  some- 
thing inaudible.  He  repeated  it,  and  Charley  echoed  back: — 
"Question  won't  be  raised?  No,  old  chap!  Because  nobody 
will  raise  it.     It  will  raise  itself." 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  239 

"Charley!" 

"  Hullo  ?  "  This  was  in  response  to  Fred's  tone  of  voice, 
which  was  more  than  uneasy.  Also^  his  hand  was  restless,  would 
not  leave  his  moustache  in  peace,  nor  his  watch-chain,  nor  the 
fingers  of  its  fellow. 

He  had  to  say  it  now.  "  I've  been  wanting  to  say  something 
.    .    .   only  couldn't  see  my  way.    ...   I  say,  Charley   ..." 

"  Eh— eh— what !  What's  all  that  ?  You  say  !  What  do  you 
say,  old  man  ?  .  .  .  Fred  dear,  what  is  it  ? "  He  paused  a 
second  or  so,  and  his  friend's  face  illuminated  him.  "  You 
haven't — you  surely  haven't — fallen  out  with  Cintra?" 

Fred  drew  his  fingers  dreamily  over  his  eyes,  and  said  in  a 
dreary  way : — "  There  is  no  Cintra.  She  is  Miss  Fraser — for 
me,  at  any  rate.  .  .  .  No — I  know  what  you  are  going  to  say. 
Don't  say  it.  It  is  for  good.  It  can't  be  made  up.  We  have 
not  quarrelled.  We  shall  not  quarrel.  But  we  have  made  a 
discovery.  The  love  of  neither  of  us  was  what  the  other  asked, 
and  the  thing  comes  naturally  to  an  end." 

"  I  don't  believe  you.  I  won't  believe  you.  There  never  was 
a  quarrel  that  couldn't  be  made  up — only  go  the  right  way 
about  it.   ..." 

"  I  said  there  was  no  quarrel,  and  I  mean  it.  There  is  none. 
I  cannot  tell  you  what  it  was  that  led  us  to  find  out  the  truth. 
Because  that's  the  English  of  it.  We  have  been  under  a  delusion. 
Anyhow,  the  thing's  at  an  end !  At  an  end — at  an  end !  Don't 
run  away  with  the  idea  that  it  can  be  patched  up.  And,  Charley 
— about  that  house !  I  suppose  Miss  Hinchlifl:e's  .  .  .  well, 
Lucy's   .    .    .   intention — her  idea   ..." 

"  Buying  the  lease?     Yes,  go  on." 

"  I  suppose  it  hinged  on  .  .  .  the  joint-stock  arrangement, 
and  that  fizzles  out.  What  a  good  job  1  was  in  time  to  tell 
you ! " 

A  bvstander  would  have  found  it  difficult  to  guess  the  voun^ 
lawyer's  thougnts.  Perplexed  gravity  was  natural  under  the 
circumstances,  but  why  did  he  withhold  a  cordial  assent  to  Fred's 
expression  of  satisfaction?  He  seemed  either  to  be  doing  that, 
or  thinking  of  something  else.  A  perceptible  pause  followed,  of 
silence;  and  then  he  said  in  a  perfunctory  way — a  tone  of  pro- 
forma  acquiescence: — "Good  job — yes.  A'ery  good  job!"  and 
changed  the  subject. 

What  had  Fred  done  about  telling  his  mother  of  this?  Would 
she  not  be  very  much  upset  about  it?  She  had  taken  very 
kindly  to  her  future  daughter-in-law,  had  she  not? 


240  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

Fred  explained,  and  told — as  was  easy  enough  now  he  had 
divulged  the  main  fact — of  his  various  adventures  since  he 
parted  from  Cintra  the  day  before.  He  derided  himself  with- 
out remorse  for  his  ridiculous  night-excursion,  more  particularly 
for  that  prej^osterous  expedition  to  the  Old  Madhouse,  and  the 
way  he  had  gone  off  on  a  false  scent  about  the  parson  that  had 
tumbled  into  a  mill-pond.  He  ascribed  whatever  was  visible  in 
his  exterior  of  the  effects  of  perturbation  and  excitement  more 
to  this  section  of  his  adventures  than  to  the  collapse  of  his 
love-affair,  about  which  he  was  ostentatiously  philosophical.  It 
was  much  better  for  both  of  them,  and  Cintra  would  become  the 
happy  wife  of  some  fellow  much  better  than  himself — well,  of 
another  sort,  anyhow!  He  could  only  rejoice,  for  his  part,  that 
they  had  discovered  their  mistake  in  time.  An  ill-assorted 
union,  etcetera !  He  paid  a  tribute  to  Cintra's  courage  in 
taking  the  step  she  had  done,  and  ending  matters.  For  the 
thing  was  entirely  her  doing.  He  himself  would  just  have 
gone  blindly  on^  in  a  course  which  could  have  led  to 
no  true  happiness  for  either  of  them.  Etcetera,  etcetera, 
-etcetera ! 

"  But  you  may  fancy,  Charley  old  chap,  what  a  devil  of  a 
stew  I  got  in  owing  to  that  young  fool's  story  at  E'pl-'y,  and 
what  a  nervy  condition  I  was  in  altogether,  iioni  my  hearing 
you  sing  out  again  at  The  Cedars." 

"  Hearing  me  sing  out  again  at  The  Cedars  ?  •'' 

"  Yes — don't  you  recollect?  Me  and  the  old  woman  both — we 
got  it  into  our  heads  that  you  sang  out : — '  Come  back,  Fred ! ' 
:.    .    .   Oh,  you  recollect !  " 

"  I — think — I  do.     Ye-es  !     Just  down  that  long  passage." 

"  Just  there.  Well ! — I  heard  the  same  voice  over  again. 
Same  words  and  all !  " 

"  Eeaction  of  memory  on  nervous  overstrain.     It  shows." 

"  Yes — it  shows."  Charley  was  looking  at  his  watch.  "  Shall 
I  come  and  chat  while  you  dress?  I  haven't  got  to,  myself.  I'm 
only  going  to  the  Vale." 

"  All  right — but  there's  no  hurry  for  a  few  minutes.  I'm 
not  going  to  my  young  woman  this  evening.  Dining  at  Low- 
kins's — chent  of  ours — Subterraneous  Heat  Company — ^you 
know?  But  I  shall  try  to  get  round  to  Trymer,  late.  I  must 
get  ten  minutes  talk  with  him  to-night."  He  repeated  these 
last  words  twice,  as  though  the  importance  of  this  talk  was 
pressing. 

Fred  might  have  asked  him  why,  but  he  had  just  remembered 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  241 

a  collateral  event  his  narrative  had  overlooked.     ■"'  By-the-bye," 
said  he,  "  I  was  forgetting  all  about  Elbows." 

"What  about  Elbows?     She's  not  picked  up  a  sweetheart?" 

"  Not  that  I  know  of.     But  she's  very  nearly  killed  herself." 

"  What  for  ...   I  mean — how's  she  done  that?  "    Fred  gave 

an  account  of  the  accident.     His  friend  listened  absently,  saying 

at  the  conclusion  of  it : — "  Well,  I'm  glad  the  young  woman's 

not  seriously  hurt.     I'll  go  as  far  as  that." 

Fred  considered,  and  said : — "  Well — I'll  join  you.  Only  don't 
you  go  any  further,  young  man."  To  which  Mr.  Charley  re- 
plied : — "  Xo  fear !  "  So  unpopular  with  them  was  this  young 
lady  at  that  date. 

That  anticipation  that  the  man  supposed  to  be  drowned  in 
Flinders's  mill-pond  would  solve  the  mystery  of  Dr.  Carteret's 
disappearance  had  a  curious  effect  afterwards  on  Fred's  mind. 
It  had  been  a  reality  to  him  for  a  couple  of  hours  or  more,  and 
the  relief  he  felt  on  learning  that  it  was  altogether  misplaced 
and  illusory  did  not  bring  back  the  confidence  he  had  felt  before 
that  his  uncle  must  be  alive  and  well  somewhere,  and  that  the 
whole  thing  would  surely  be  explained.  It  seemed  to  give  the 
theory  of  the  vanished  man's  death  a  foothold  in  his  imagina- 
tion, although  his  mere  reasoning  powers  refused  to  be  affected 
by  it.  It  ought  by  rights  to  have  left  both  imagination  and 
reason  untouched.  But  the  right  to  be  rigidly  logical  is  one 
that  human  nature  very  seldom  claims.  This  incident  brought 
Fred  nearer  to  a  belief  that  he  had  seen  his  uncle  for  the  last 
time  than  anything  that  had  happened  before. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

Mr.  Charley  Snaith  had  dined  at  Mr.  Lowkins's,  and  was 
enjoying  a  late  cigar  with  his  principal,  Mr.  Trymer,  whose  wife 
and  daughter  had  taken  a  guest  to  the  play.  He  had  laid  his 
business  before  Mr.  Trymer,  and  Mr.  Trymer  had  thought  it  well 
over. 

Mr.  Trymer  was  a  gentleman  who  had  earned  a  reputation  of 
great  profundity  for  his  opinions,  by  never  expressing  any.  Or 
rather,  he  had  a  happy  faculty  of  making  advice  not  to  do  this, 
that,  or  the  other  sound  exactly  like  an  exhortation  towards 
energy  in  respect  of  that,  the  other,  or  this.  So  much  so  that 
clients  would  leave  Lincoln's  Inn  under  the  impression  that  he 
had  armed  them  at  all  points  for  decisive  action,  to  find  it 
gradually  dawn  upon  them — by  the  time  they  reached  Totten- 
ham Court  Road,  for  instance — that  they  had  been  enjoined  on 
no  account  to  say  anything;  to  be  most  careful  not  to  write 
anything;  to  refuse  to  see  anybody,  even  in  the  presence  of  sev- 
eral able-bodied  witnesses,  and  in  short  to  mould  their  behaviour 
on  that  of  a  rock-limpet.  His  advice  to  litigious  persons  alone 
to  keep  out  of  Law  Courts  would  have  been  enough  to  make 
the  reputation  of  his  firm. 

One  very  extraordinary  circumstance  about  this  gentleman  was 
that  his  sound  sense  and  legal  acumen  impressed  those  with 
whom  he  was  brought  in  contact  more  and  more  in  proportion 
io  the  length  of  their  acquaintance.  One  would  have  imagined 
the  contrary ;  that  a  new  employee,  for  instance,  would  have  been 
disabused  of  his  exalted  opinion  of  his  principal  after  a  certain 
lapse  of  time  without  speech  from  the  Oracle.  But  the  reverse 
was  the  case.  Here  was  Mr.  Charles  Snaith,  who  had  passed 
through  a  preliminary  clerkship  before  he  became  a  junior  part- 
ner, and  who  still  believed  in  the  infallibility  of  that  Oracle 
in  spite  of  the  fact  that  its  decisions  remained  unspoken.  "  I've 
come  to  tap  your  brains,  Mr.  Trymer,  on  a  knotty  point,"  had 
been  his  introduction  to  his  explanation  of  his  visit  at  so  late 
an  hour,  when  he  surprised  that  gentleman  by  his  appearance 
after  dinner  with  the  Lowkinses.  Mr.  Trymer  had  replied: — 
"  My  dear  Snaith,  my  experience  and  professional  abilities — such 
as  they  are — are  at  your  service  now  as  always.     This  is  the 

242 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  243 

comfortablest  chair.  Take  it."  After  which  Charley  had  told 
him  what  had  brought  him  to  the  fountain-head  of  legal  wisdom. 

"  On  thinking  it  well  over,"  said  the  Oracle,  three-quarters  of 
an  hour  later,  "  m}'  strong  impression  is,  that  any  attempt  on 
your  part  to  influence  the  course  of  events  would  be  unsuccess- 
ful. Yes.  Un — sue — cessful."  Charley  looked  disappointed, 
and  the  Oracle  started  on  a  recapitulation  of  facts.  "  If  I 
understand  you  rightly,  you  had  concise  instructions  from  this 
lady — whose  daughter  I  shall  hope  to  have  the  opportunity  of 
congratulating  shortly  on  her  marriage  with  " — here  the  speaker 
adopted  a  tone  of  uncalled-for  slyness — "  with  a  young  friend  of 
mine — to  write  a  definite  offer  of  eighteen  hundred  pounds  for 
the  purchase  of  this  lease,  the  sum  named  by  the  vendor  being 
two  thousand." 

"  Ye-es — in  fact,  Lucy  settled  the  matter ;  told  her  mother 
she  must  make  the  offer,  and  told  me  I  must  write  the  letter. 
I  don't  see  that  I  had  any  choice,"  said  Charley,  somewhat 
ruefully. 

Said  Mr.  Trymer,  in  a  parenthesis : — "  Fifteen  hundred  quite 
enough — quite  enough  !  " 

"  So  I  said.  But  Lucy  said  if  she  gave  way  and  allowed  it 
to  be  eighteen  hundred,  that  was  as  much  as  any  mother  could 
expect,  and  she  wasn't  going  to  run  any  risk  of  losing  the 
house.     What  could  I  do  ?  " 

"  I  see.  You  were  acting  under  the  instructions  of  a  client 
whom  you  were  unable  to  influence." 

"  Precisely." 

"  And — as  I  understand — circumstances  have  arisen  which 
make  the  proposed  arrangement  most  undesirable." 

"  I  am  afraid  so." 

"  H'm !  Now,  always  if  I  understand  you  rightly,  you  do  not 
ask  my  advice  or  opinion  on  any  question  but  this : — "  Does  your 
client  stand  committed  to  the  purchase  of  this  property?" 

"  Yes — that  is  really  what  I  want  to  know." 

The  profundity  and  responsibility  of  Mr.  Trymer's  appearance 
was  most  impressive  as  he  replied : — "  Subject  to  certain  condi- 
tions which  might — or  might  not — be  implied  by  the  terms  of  the 
contract,  I  should  say  distinctly  yes," — Mr.  Snaith  looked  crest- 
fallen— "  or  no."  An  addendum  which  made  Charley  pick  up 
his  spirits. 

''As  for  instance   .    .    .   the  conditions   .    .    .?"  said  he. 

"  On  condition — for  instance — that  the  offer  was  accepted 
within  twenty-four  hours,  unconditionally,  I  should  say  it  would 


244  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

bo  extremely  difficult  to  withdraw  from  it — extremely  difficult." 

"  They  only  got  my  letter  this  morning.  Or  rather,  I  doubt 
if  the  solicitors  have  got  the  offer  yet.  I  sent  it  to  the  agent  at 
Wimbledon.  Suppose  I  were  to  call  on  them  to-morrow  and 
put  the  case   .    .    .   would  that   .    .    .  ? " 

''  Advance  matters  ?  No — I  should  say  not — certainly  not. 
If  I  am  asked  to  advise  in  any  case,  my  advice  is  always  '  Never 
do  things ! '  My  dear  Snaith,  when  you  are  my  age  you  will 
know,  what  I  know,  that  out  of  every  hundred  mistakes  that  are 
made,  ninety-nine  are  due  to  someone  having  done  something. 
The  odd  one  may  be  due  to  inactivity.  But  my  advice  is — leave 
M-ell  alone,  in  case  you  make  it  bad ;  and  leave  ill  alone,  in  case 
you  make  it  worse."  Mr.  Trymer's  appearance  as  he  said  this 
was  so  intensely  responsible  that  had  Experience  herself  been 
speaking,  the  words  could  not  have  seemed  more  impressive. 

"■'  Then,  in  fact,"  said  Charley,  "  you  recommend  me  to  leave 
matters  as  they  are  ?  " 

"  As  they  are." 

"  Then  what  do  you  suppose  will  happen?  Will  Mrs.  Hinch- 
liffe  be  under  an  obligation  to  purchase  the  Iiouse?  " 

''  I  should  say  not.  No,  I  should  say  not.  If  the  vendors 
write  accepting  the  offer  unconditionally,  of  course  it  may  call 
for  a  little  circumspection.  We  shall  have  to  examine  the  title- 
deeds." 

"  And  suppose  tliey  turn  out  indisputably  sound  ?  " 

"  My  dear  sir,  if  they  turn  out  so  sound  that  this  lady  is  under 
a  legal  obligation  to  be  satisfied  with  them,  they  will  be  the  first 
examples  of  such  instruments  that  liave  come  within  my  experi- 
ence. I  have  yet  to  learn  that  there  exists  a  statutory  obligation 
to  be  satisfied  with  any  security,  however  sound.  But  I  would 
lay  any  reasonable  wager  that  on  examination  the  title  of  this 
estate  will  not  prove  so  flawless  as  to  give  no  satisfactory  ground 
lov  dissatisfaction.     Anyway,  let  us  examine  them." 

Charley  looked  considerably  comforted.  But  his  Mentor  had 
not  exhausted  all  the  legal  possibilities  of  the  case,  and  continued. 
'■'  However,  it  won't  come  to  that.  You'll  see,  it  won't  come  to 
that.  They'll  accept  the  offer,  and  they'll  impose  some  condi- 
tion. Vendors  always  do.  But — as  I  view  the  matter,  and  I 
think  the  Courts  would  bear  me  out — the  lady's  offer  was  uncon- 
ditional, and  the  imposition  of  a  condition  would  release  her 
from  any  obligation  in  respect  of  it." 

"  And  suppose  they  withdrew  the  condition  ?  " 

"  Well — suppose  they  did !     And  suppose  that  she  had  been 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  245 

wavering  between  two  purchases,  and  had  closed  with  the  other 
on  receipt  of  their  conditions,  accepting  them  as  final.  How 
then  ? " 

'•'  I  appreciate  that  point,"  said  Charley.  "  Thank  you,  Mr. 
Trymer."  And  he  really  felt  grateful  to  his  principal,  wlio  had 
indeed  given  more  luminous  guidance  in  this  case  than  he  had 
conceded  to  any  client  for  a  long  time  past. 

They  talked  of  other  matters.  "  By-the-bye,"  said  Mr.  Trymer, 
very  incidentally,  "  has  that  old  gentleman  turned  up  yet  ?  Dr. 
What's-his-name ?    Your  friend  Fred's  relation?" 

"Why — no!     Do  you  anticipate   .    .    .?" 

"  That  he'll  turn  up?  Oh  dear  yes — sure  to !  Missing  people 
have  been  known  to  vanish  for  good;  but  under  circumstances. 
In  this  case  I  understand  there  were  no  circumstances." 

"  Absolutely  none  whatever !  " 

"No  lady,  naturally.  But  how  about  creditors?  Creditors, 
without  assets,  become  circumstances." 

"  Certainly  no  creditor-circumstances,  and  any  amount  of 
assets.  As  for  the  lady-circumstance,  Fred  had  a  theory.  I 
fancy  he's  given  it  up  though." 

"  Confidential,  I  suppose?  " 

"  Well,  I  don't  know.  I  think  you  would  be  an  exception. 
Anyhow,  I'll  risk  it."  Charley  gave  a  brief  abstract  of  the 
early-love-affair  theory,  as  he  and  Fred  had  worked  it  out  to- 
gether, in  several  chats. 

"  Nothing  to  be  kept  secret  there  that  I  can  see,"  said  Mr. 
Trymer.  "  At  least,  nothing  juicy  in  the  way  of  crime  or  im- 
morality. Interesting  perhaps — romantic — that  sort  of  thing! 
Not  probable." 

"  Improbability  seems  to  me  of  the  essence  of  the  contract,'* 
said  Charley.     "  We  can't  do  without  it." 

"  ^Vllat  does  Mrs.  Carteret  believe — Master  Fred's  mother?" 

Charley  dropped  his  voice  to  answer: — "Murder,"  and  raised 
it  again,  to  say : — "  But  I  fancy  she's  an  impressible  woman. 
Not  hysterical,  you  know,  but  impressible." 

Mr.  Trymer  was  trying  different  ways  of  bringing  his  finger- 
tips in  contact.  "If  she's  not  hysterical,"  said  he,  "why,  then 
— her  impressions  may  be  right."  He  left  his  thumbs  in  firm 
contact,  expressive  of  trustworthy  and  non-hysterical  conclusions, 
and  disbarred  his  other  fingers. 

"  We  must  hope  not,"  said  Charley.  A  sound  came  as  of 
ladies  returning  from  a  theatre,  and  talking  about  a  play.  "  I 
must  be  off,"  he  continued.     "  I  want  to  catch  Fred  before  he 


246  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

turns  in."  He  professed  insincere  rapture,  as  he  departed,  at 
the  opportunity  vouchsafed  to  him  of  wishing  Mrs.  Trymer  and 
her  daughter  a  good-night  apiece,  and  ran  away  to  Praed  Street 
to  catch  tlie  last  train.  For  Mr.  Trymer  hved  in  Porchester 
Terrace. 

But  when  he  got  to  the  Temple,  he  saw  no  light  in  Fred's 
window,  and  inferred  that  he  had  gone  to  bed.  So  he  had,  more 
than  an  hour  since,  and  had  plunged  straight  down  into  the 
caverns  of  Sleep.  And  no  wonder,  considering  what  his  previous 
night  had  been.     So  Mr.  Charles  Snaith  went  to  bed  himself. 

Next  morning  saw  the  two  young  men  at  breakfast  in  Fred's 
room.  The  story  may  take  up  their  conversation  half-way 
through,  and  let  it  explain  what  preceded  it. 

Fred  said,  recurring  to  something  his  friend  had  just  told 
him : — "  I'm  very  much  relieved  to  hear  that.  It  really  would 
have  been  an  awful  fix  if  Lucy's  mother  had  stood  committed.  I 
suppose  we  may  rely  on  Trymer." 

"  Oh  dear  yes !  And  on  the  Lord  Chancellor.  P'r'aps  Tr3Tiier 
is  the  most  trustworthy, — less  liable  to  be  run  away  with  by 
sentiment.  But,  you  know,  it's  Just  possible  that  Lucy  will 
refuse  to  give  the  house  up.  You've  no  idea  hov/ — how  nuts  she 
was  upon  it." 

Fred  looked  gloomy.  "  I  hate  the  place,"  said  he.  "  Can't 
help  it,  Charley." 

"  Not  to  be  wondered  at,  under  the  circumstances !  I  should." 
A  short  silence,  over  the  new-made  grave  of  Fred's  engagement. 
Tlien  Charley  took  in  sail.  "  When  I  say  it's  just  possible  Lucy 
will  refuse  to  give  the  house  up,  perhaps  I  ought  to  put  it  that 
she  isn't  the  least  likely  to  do  so.  Not  in  practice.  Because,  you 
see,  her  nutness  was  conditional  on  the  Joint-stock  occupancy." 

Fred  took  no  notice  of  his  friend's  high-handed  treatment  of 
the  English  language.  "  She  knew  nothing  of  what  had  taken 
place,"  he  said.  "  She  still  thinks  the  arrangement  stands. 
You  must  write  at  once  and  tell  her.  Or  go  and  see  her  about 
it  at  once.     Much  better !  " 

"  I'm  going  there  this  evening,  old  chap.  Won't  that  do  ? 
You  needn't  fidget  about  Mrs.  Hinchliffe  and  the  purchase  of 
the  house,  that's  only  a  letter  written.  Trymer  knows  what  he's 
about.  You  may  rely  on  him.  Anyhow,  whether  Lucy's  mamma 
knows  or  not  won't  make  any  difference.  .  .  .  There's  the 
post." 

There  was.     And  Mrs.  Gamridge,  who  acted  as  domestic  for 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  247 

laoth  households,  or  diggings-holds — if  the  name  in  commonest 
use  b}'  these  young  gentlemen  can  be  so  adapted — was  signing 
for  a  registered  letter.  This  was  not  a  thing  that  Mrs.  Gamridge 
could  do  offhand.  Indeed,  she  would  have  saved  ninety-per-cent 
of  the  time  consumed,  by  appealing  to  her  employers  for  their 
caligraphy.  But  she  was  too  proud  of  her  own  to  do  that,  and 
when  Fred  went  into  the  passage  to  anticipate  the  slow  develop- 
ment of  the  delivery,  he  found  her  with  her  head  sideways  on 
the  window-sill,  her  tongue  out,  and  the  postman's  book  placed 
so  that  the  eye  she  had  left  open  for  the  purpose  could  note  her 
pen's  point  travelling  directly  away  from  it.  Even  so  the  spec- 
tator of  Holbein's  two  ambassadors  at  the  Xational  Gallery  gets 
as  near  the  picture  as  he  may  to  detect  the  miraculous  skill  in 
perspective.  It  was  the  attitude  of  a  Scribe,  but  not  of  such  a 
one  as  the  story's  memory  associates  with  Seti-Menephthah  or 
Assur-Bani-Pal.  Their  scribes  had  a  certain  diabolical  alacrity, 
and  an  appearance  of  preternatural  skill  that  was  wanting  in 
Mrs.  Gamridge. 

"  There,  that'll  do,"  said  Fred,  unfeelingly.  He  came  back 
bearing  letters  and  a  small  packet,  which  he  put  in  his  pocket. 
A  letter  in  a  lady's  writing,  which  he  read  and  pondered  over 
a  good  deal,  provoked  his  friend  to  an  enquiry.  "  Mustn't  know 
what  she  says,  I  suppose,"  said  he. 

"  'Wliy — no !  At  least,  she  didn't  mean  it  for  the  public.  But 
I  suppose  there's  no  harm  in  saying  she  takes  all  the  blame  on 
herself." 

'^  \Vhat  blame  ?     Can't  see  that  anyone's  to  blame." 

"  Says  she  ought  to  have  spoken  before — ought  to  have  known 
her  own  mind  better." 

"  If  she  had  spoken  before,  she  would  only  have  thought  she 
ought  to  have  spoken  heforer.     Twig?  " 

"  Oh  yes — I  twig,  fast  enough.  Don't  translate.  Beforer  is 
quite  intelligible."  Fred  welcomed  tl:is  view  of  the  case,  with 
somewhat  too  much  promptitude.  It  enabled  him  to  ignore  any 
recent  event — any  new  personality  in  particular — that  had 
broken  into  his  dream  of  what  had  seemed  Love  up  to  the  date 
of  its  intrusion.  He  was  grateful  for  any  theory  that  made  it 
possible  to  shut  his  eyes  to  Lucy  Hinchliffe;  especially  when 
talking  with  Charley,  to  whom  she  was  dedicated. 

But — a  mistake  from  the  beginning!  How  could  that  be? 
His  mind  sought  for  the  beginning.  Was  it  a  mistake,  when  he 
met  Cintra  at  Mrs.  Searcival's  Cinderella,  that  they  should  sit 
through   the    next   two    dances    together    on    the    stairs,    while 


248  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

loquacious  couples  passed  up  and  down;  and,  to  play  fair,  took 
no  notice  of  them?  Was  it  a  mistake  that,  when  he  found  her 
father  was  "  the  Professor  Fraser,"  he  should  jump  so  greedily 
at  the  chance  of  making  that  Professor's  acquaintance — in  spite 
of  the  fact  tiiat  the  Professor's  specialty  was  Chemistry — on  a 
pretence  that  was  connected  with  Dynamics.  He  could  so  easily 
have  avoided  that  mistake.  After  all,  what  connection  was  there 
between  Vibration — Fred's  particular  weakness — and  the  Mono- 
morphism  of  Molecules?  As  far  as  the  story  can  recollect,  that 
was  the  Professor's  strong  point;  but  it  can't  be  sure.  Were 
all  the  pretences  he  had  been  guilty  of  in  order  to  establish  a 
foothold  in  the  family  of  the  Professor's  daughter  mistakes? 
Would  he  not  have  done  more  wisely  to  discredit  altogether  the 
Professor's  thesis,  that,  if  nothing'  existed  in  Space  but  one 
Atom,  Motion  would  not  exist,  than  to  make  believe  it  was  a 
point  he  had  concentrated  his  faculties  on,  in  vain,  until  he 
read  the  Professor's  beautiful  disquisition  on  it?  If  he  had 
flouted  it,  probably  he  would  not  have  been  asked  to  the  house 
again,  and  his  growing  intoxication  of  delight  with  the  society 
of  Cintra  would  never  have  ended  in  a  climax.  Was  that  climax, 
and  its  rapture  as  of  a  newly  discovered  land,  the  greatest  mis- 
take of  all  ? 

And  the  curious  part  of  it  all  was,  that  nothing  had  marred 
this  felicity  of  a  plighted  troth — mere  squabbles  apart,  that 
neither  believed  to  be  discords,  and  that  always  ended  in  recon- 
ciliation— until  .  .  .  His  reflections  hung  fire  on  the  threshold 
of  definition,  and  would  not  admit  the  share  Charley's  fiancee — 
unwittingly  of  course — had  in  his  disillusionment.  Yet  honour 
and  chivalry  towards  his  dethroned  idol  shrank  from  accusing 
her  of  indulgence  in  unreasonable  jealousy.  And  then,  how 
specify  its  object,  in  the  very  presence  of  that  object's  uncon- 
scious devotee!  Poor  Charley! — his  absolute  unconsciousness 
of  the  forces  co-operating  towards  confusion  and  mischief  were 
a  nightmare  to  his  friend.  There  he  sat,  enjoying  an  after- 
breakfast  cigar  with  a  serene  face — a  face  with  a  buried  smile 
that  spoke  of  happy  hidden  contemplations — a  face  that  knew 
nothing  of  the  seeds  of  turmoil  in  that  invisible  mind  just  across 
the  table. 

The  story  is  sorry  for  both  these  young  men.  There  was 
really  no  way  out  of  the  position — putting  aside,  of  course,  the 
possibility  of  Fred's  disenchantment  the  next  time  he  inter- 
viewed the  witch ;  not  at  all  out  of  the  question,  seeing  that  she 
might  have  a  cold,  and  sniff  or  anything — no  way  except  that 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  249 

the  two  old  friends  from  boyhood  should  be  wrenched  asunder 
because  their  two  hearts  had  fallen  into  possession  of  the  same 
chit.  No  way,  except  that  Fred  should  go,  like  the  gentleman 
in  Mrs.  Browning's  poem  who  couldn't  stay  to  supper  because 
the  lady  was  fair,  and  was  able  to  strangle  his  soul  with  a  lock 
of  her  yellow  hair — you  remember? — and  whom  the  lady  gave 
such  a  severe  lecture  to !  Even  admitting  that  Fred  had  been 
rash  in  vowing  undying  love  to  Cintra,  as  he  had  done  on  many 
occasions  he  recalled  with  embarrassment,  not  shame,  did  he 
deserve  so  cruel  a  position  as  the  one  in  which  he  found  him- 
self? 

He  did  not  absolutely  say  to  himself : — "  I  hope  to  God  that 
next  time  I  see  her  I  shall  hate  her," — meaning,  of  course,  the 
enchantress.  But  he  knew  that  if  he  could  have  said  it,  and  his 
hope  had  been  fulfilled,  he  would  no  longer  have  felt  choked  with 
disloyalty  to  his  friend. 

He  disappeared  into  his  sleeping-room  with  the  registered 
packet  unopened,  and  returned  without  it.  Charley  heard  a 
small  drawer  opened,  shut,  and  locked.  He  identified  the  parcel 
as  the  jeweller's  cardboard  box,  almost  certainly,  in  which  the 
ring  he  had  helped  his  friend  to  buy  over  a  year  ago  had  been 
enshrined  by  its  vendor,  over  and  above  the  satin-lined  casket 
it  lived  in,  stuck  edgewise  in  a  slot — Cintra's  engaged  ring. 
He  wondered  what  became  of  all  the  returned  presents,  when 
trothplights  miss  fire.  Was  it  true  that  jewellers  offered  to 
take  them  back  at  par  on  production  of  documentary  proof  of 
the  engagement  having  come  to  an  end,  and  less  fifteen-per-cent 
anyhow?  If  the  engagement  revived,  and  the  gentleman  wanted 
the  ring  back,  to  go  on  again,  did  he  sacrifice  all  the  discount 
or  how?  He  felt  the  interest  in  these  issues  of  one  who  could 
never  be  personally  involved  in  similar  ones.  His  trothplight 
had  its  foundations  in  some  Silurian  system  that  never  changed, 
by  nature;  was  built  on  an  outcrop  of  Primitive  Trap  in  a  desert 
of  shifting  sands — the  sands  of  human  weakness. 

The  young  ladj  who  was  the  other  necessary  factor  to  this 
immutability  was  a  subject  of  wonder  to  a  large  circle  of  well- 
to-do  card-le«Ters  whose  function  as  such  brought  them  into 
touch  with  her  mother's  house  in  Devonshire  Place,  Eegent's 
Park.  This  circle  wondered  at  two  things :  the  daughters  at 
one,  the  mothers  at  the  other.  The  former  wondered  what  on 
earth  could  possess  Lucy  Hinchliffe  to  engage  herself  to  that 
plain  Mr.  Snaith;  the  latter  what  on  earth  could  possess  her 


250  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 


mother  to  allow  her  to  do  so.     Neither  thing  could  be  accounted 
for  by  anything  short  of  possession. 

The  solution  of  the  mystery  was  not  really  difficult.  This 
mother  and  daughter  belonged  to  a  privileged  class — a  class 
that  is  in  the  confidence  of  Property.  If  you,  who  read  this 
story,  are  middle-aged  and  fairly  observant — and,  it  must  add, 
if  you  mix  with  circles — ^you  surely  have  chanced  across  examples 
of  this  privileged  class.  Have  you  never  felt  the  force  of  the 
secret  knowledge  that  Mrs.  So-and-so  or  Lady  Such-and-such 
have,  of  who  is  going  to  inherit  what — or  whose  heir  Snooks  is, 
or  where  the  Panjandrum  property  will  go  when  old  Lord  Chit- 
terling  dies?  Mrs.  So-and-so  and  Lady  Such-and-such  are  the 
sort  that  say — when  you  have  mentioned,  for  instance,  some 
connection  by  marriage  of  your  great-aunt  Deborah : — "  Let  me 
see !  She  was  a  Penultimate,  wasn't  she  ?  "  Whereupon  you  have 
been  fain  to  confess  that  you  have  not  known  the  interesting 
fact,  but  that  Mrs.  Dabchick  has  very  likely  been  a  Penultimate, 
all  the  while. 

But  this  has  been  at  best  a  surface-symptom  of  the  secret 
knowledge  in  the  depths  beneath  of  these  ladies'  minds.  It 
exists  nevertheless,  and  only  comes  to  light  when  they  have 
daughters,  which  indeed  is  generally  the  case.  Then  you  awake 
one  day  to  the  fact  that  the  swarm  of  young  men  whom  these 
bevies  or  clusters  or  groups  of  daughters  have  married  is  a  well- 
connected  swarm.  One  after  another,  as  Lord  This  or  Sir  That 
succumbs — that's  what  they  do  in  their  walk  of  life — it  is  borne 
in  upon  you  that  you  have  been,  as  it  were,  entertaining  a 
potential  Duke  or  Baronet  unawares,  and  that  what  seemed 
merely  Tom  or  Bob  for  so  many  years  was  all  along  a  terri- 
torial potentate.  Also  that  the  lady  who  has  become  his  mother- 
in-law  knew,  and  when  she  resigned  herself  so  meekly  to  her 
daughters'  love-matches,  did  so  with  a  consciousness  of  the  ace 
of  trumps  up  her  sleeve.  She  was  in  the  confidence  of  Property. 
So,  no  doubt,  was  her  daughter.  But  the  daughters  of  this  tlass 
do  not  participate  actively  in  this  communion  with  Property. 
They  are  content  with  the  outer  courts  of  her  temple,  and  leave 
the  functions  of  the  Altar — the  higher  inner  knowledge — to 
their  mothers.  What  seems  so  curious  to  the  likes  of  us,  when 
the  aforesaid  potentate  succumbs,  and  the'  obituary  reveals  his 
next  of  kin,  alwa3's  is,  that  we  should  have  been  for  so  long  out- 
siders. 

\Yhy  didn't  Tom  or  Bob  tell  us  that  he  would  one  day  come 
into  the  Panjandrum  estates?     The  answer  is  simple  enough  in 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  251 

some  cases.  Tom  or  Bob  hardly  knows,  himself.  He  is  not  the 
sort  of  fellow  to  advertise  his  connection  with  a  bigwig  if,  as 
may  happen,  his  father's  family  and  his  own  are  not  on  speaking 
terms.  He  may  never  have  assimilated  the  idea — if  his  educa- 
tion kept  him  rather  in  the  dark — that  if  the  icy  hand  of  Death 
were  laid  on  sundry  cousins  he  had  never  seen,  always  supposing 
those  cousins  to  die  without  male  issue,  he  would  suddenly  find 
himself  overwhelmed  with  a  huge  income,  countless  acres,  and 
responsibility.  It  is  not  the  mission  of  this  story  to  wonder  at 
this;  but,  as  to  how  Mrs.  So-and-so  and  Lady  Such-and-such 
come  to  know  all  about  it,  that  certainly  is  a  mystery  on  which 
it  can  throw  no  light.  It  can  only  surmise  that  they  are  in  the 
confidence  of  Property. 

Even  so  Mrs.  Absalom  Hinchliffe  was  in  the  confidence  of 
Property  about  what  was  in  store  for  Charley  Snaith,  in  the 
event  of  three  not  improbable  deaths,  when  she  countenanced  his 
addresses  to  her  beautiful  daughter  Lucy,  in  spite  of  his  looks, 
which  were  against  him,  and  the  fact  that  he  was  a  mere  solicitor. 
He  might  get  into  Parliament  certainly.  But  after  all — if  he 
did   .    .    .  ! 

The  question : — "  Ought  such  beauty  as  Lucy  Hinchliffe's  to 
be  thrown  away  on  a  mere  solicitor,  even  with  a  seat  in  the 
House?  "  was  asked  and  negatived  by  both  mothers  and  daugh- 
ters in  that  circle  the  story  has  referred  to,  each  segment  of 
which  continually  left  its  cards  on  every  other,  and  frequently 
wrote  on  their  backs  that  it  was  so  sorry  not  to  find  it  at  home.. 
Lucy  had  the  faculty  some  girls  have  of  exciting  the  admiration 
of  her  own  sex,  even  when  it  made  no  secret  of  its  jealousy. 

As  for  Charley  himself,  if  he  had  heard  a  suspicion  of  the 
purity  of  the  motives  of  either  mother  or  daughter  expressed  by 
any  member  of  that  or  any  other  circle,  his  indignation  would 
have  been  boundless.  The  worst  he  ever  said  of  his  mother-in- 
law-elect  was  that  she  was  overpowering;  for  his  estimate  of  her 
as  an  Orientally-disposed  female  was  hardly  disparagement,  and 
indeed  might  have  been  praise.  Moreover,  to  him  the  complex 
possibilities  of  heirs  to  his  great-uncle's  wealth  and  position  were 
too  numerous  to  admit  of  speculations  in  which  he  could  have 
any  personal  interest.  Perhaps  Mrs.  Absalom  Hinchliffe  had 
among  her  Oriental  dispositions  powers  of  prophecy,  and  that 
they  foretold,  truly  or  falsely,  that  the  bachelor  Lord  Nextley, 
the  eldest  son,  would  never  marry  and  was  sixty ;  that  one  of  his 
married  brothers  would  die  without  issue,  and  the  other  be 
limited  to  a  female  one.    Anyhow,  it  would  appear  that  she  had 


252  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

come  to  the  conclusion  that  the  prize  was  so  big  that  a  coura- 
geous mother  would  be  justified  in  putting  it  to  the  touch,  to  win 
or  lose  it  all.  The  story  is  inclined  to  the  opinion  that  this  lady 
was  in  the  confidence  of  Property,  and  that  that  Goddess,  or 
Principle,  or  Essence,  or  Abstract  Idea,  had  breathed  in  her  ear 
exactly  what  might  possibly  happen  to  the  Panjandrum  title  and 
estates.  As  to  her  daughter  it  considers  that  possibly  her  con- 
science was  unblemished,  as  all  this  sort  of  thing  was  really 
mamma's  business,  not  hers. 

And  as  for  Charley — who  while  the  story  indulges  in  these 
speculations  is  on  his  way  to  Devonshire  Place  to  dine  on  deli- 
cacies first  and  felicity  next — he  had  been  from  his  babyhood  an 
illustration  of  how  it  is  possible  to  know  a  fact  to  be  true  and 
know  absolutely  nothing  more  about  it.  Just  as  an  examinee 
knows  a  subject  only  that  he  may  pass  in  it,  and  forgets  it  like  a 
shot  the  moment  he  is  "  through,"  so  Charley  knew  that  his 
family  was  akin  to  a  live  Earl.  If  he  was  reminded  of  it,  he 
did  his  duty  by  it,  knew  it  for  a  second  or  so,  and  there  an 
end.  It  would  almost  be  imputing  too  great  a  mental  activity 
to  him  to  say  that  he  forgot  it. 

He  was  in  some  trepidation  about  the  news  he  carried,  and 
not  without  hopes  that  it  might  be  discredited  on  its  merits. 
After  all — a  lovers'  quarrel !  Even  unassisled  by  experts  he  had 
been  more  than  half  inclined  to  pooh-pooh  Ered's  certainty  that 
an  impassable  chasm  yawned  between  him  and  his  late  fiancee. 
Standing  on  the  doorstep  of  No.  98  Devonshire  Place,  waiting 
for  a  bullet-headed  butler  of  incredible  responsibility  to  open 
the  door  to  its  utmost  as  though  to  admit  a  spread  eagle,  he 
indulged  a  hope  that  his  disbelief  in  that  chasm  might  be 
strengthened,  even  by  the  overpowering  mother  of  his  adored 
one.  (3f  her  refusal  to  believe  that  such  an  inauspicious  end 
had  come  to  his  friend's  immutabilities  he  had  no  doubt.  Her 
faith  in  the  reality  of  human  love — in  the  bosom  friend  of  her 
own  chosen  among  mankind,  that  is  to  say — was  too  strong  to 
permit  her  to  believe  offhand  that  such  a  rupture  could  be 
permanent.  For  Miss  Hinchliffe  had  dwelt  rapturously  on  the 
■unchangeable  nature  of  true  love,  showing — Charley  thought — 
the  purity  and  sweet  integrity  of  her  soul. 

But  he  was  destined  to  a  certain  disillusionment.  For  when 
the  bullet-headed  one  had  done  his  heralding,  and  he  had  been 
marshalled  into  the  drawing-room,  where  the  two  ladies,  in  the 
grandest  icnue,  were  standing  in  wait  for  guests,  he  used  the 
first  treasured  moment  of  aside  with  his  beloved  to  say  to  her : — 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  253 

"  I  say,  Luce,  they've  burst  up — Fred  and  Cintra."  And  he 
fully  expected  her  to  be  shocked  and  astonished  beyond  measure. 

He  felt  a  perceptible  chill  when  the  young  lady  simply 
shrugged  a  beautiful  shoulder  very  slightly  through  a  downy 
boundary  to  which  ]\Iadame  Somebody,  Eobes  et  Modes,  had 
recently  said: — "Thus  far  shalt  thou  come  and  no  further!" 
She  did  not  seem  the  least  surprised  or  taken  aback,  and  only 
paid  his  rather  panic-stricken  manner  the  compliment  of  add- 
ing:— "  You  are  thinking  of  the  house,  I  see.  You  needn't  fuss 
about  that.  I  shan't  allow  it  to  make  a  difference,  in  any  case. 
But  you'll  see  they'll  have  made  it  up  in  a  day  or  two.'^  She 
spoke  across  the  room  to  her  mother : — "  Do  you  hear,  Mamma  ? 
Frederic  Carteret  and  that  girl  have  quarrelled.  Miss  Cintra 
Fraser  .  .  .  that's  the  name  right,  isn't  it?"  This  was  to 
Charley,  who  assented. 

"  Oh  ye-es — ^Miss  Cintra  Fraser.  And  Mr.  Carteret.  Dear 
me !  "  The  mother  showed  no  interest,  and  drawled.  But  then 
llie  bullet-headed  butler  was  opening  the  door,  to  announce. 
It  was  one  of  the  handicaps,  Charley  found,  to  a  complete  enjoy- 
ment of  his  engagement,  that  there  were  always  guests  at  Devon- 
shire Place.  This  evening  he  had  promised  himself  a  really 
quiet  talk  with  his  squI's  idol.  And  here — teste  the  bullet- 
headed  one — were  Sir  Pantrey  and  Lady  Cookson,  Miss  Cookson, 
and  Mr.  Carver. 

"  You  see  what  mamma  thinks,"  said  the  young  lady.  "  But 
it  won't  make  the  slightest  difference.  I've  made  up  my  mind 
to  have  that  house,  and  I  mean  to  have  it.  Besides,  the  offer's 
made,  and  there's  an  end  of  it.  .  .  .  Oh  yes, — you  needn't 
live  there  unless  you  like.  .  .  .  Marry  somebody  else,  and  find 
a  stodgy  house  in  Kensington  or  Tyburnia — do !  /  shall  be  very 
happy,  leading  apes  at  The  Cedars."  This  mockery,  which 
seemed  to  Charley  the  most  subtle  wit,  was  interrupted  by  the 
necessity  for  greeting  the  Cookson  family,  and  being  introduced 
to  Mr.  Carver,  with  whom  that  family  was  about  to  form  an 
alliance.  Miss  Cookson  was  going  to  put  "  ]\Irs.  Hawkword 
Carver  "  on  her  cards. 

But  none  of  these  people  concern  the  story.  Destiny  had 
ordained  that  they  should  call  in  due  course,  and  find  Mrs. 
Hinchliffe  and  her  daughter  out;  that  they  should  ask  those 
ladies  to  dinner,  and  find  them  engaged,  though  weeping  salt 
tears  at  the  fact;  that  the  weepers  should  recover  their  spirits 
and  go  through  exactly  the  same  operation;  until  at  last  both 
parties  acknowledged  the  powers  of  Destiny,  and  each  submitted 

17 


254  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

to  the  loss  of  the  other.  However,  the  Cooksons  and  Mr.  Carver, 
and  the  only  other  guest — a  stray  male  who  always  dined  out — 
made  up  a  something  which  wasn't  a  party,  but  which  was  an 
obstacle  to  Mr.  Charles  Snaith  talking  with  his  fiancee  and  her 
mother  till  near  eleven  o'clock,  when  they  departed  with  bene- 
dictions. Charley's  happiness  at  getting  rid  of  them  did  duty 
for  the  remains  of  the  rapture  he  ought  to  have  experienced  at 
their  presence. 

He  was  just  congratulating  himself  on  the  way  in  which  he 
had  played  his  part,  when  Lucy  said  to  him,  minimising  a  pal- 
pable yawn : — "  What  boring  people !  Oh  dear !  Now  come 
and  tell  me  about  your  friend  and  that  girl." 

The  tone  of  this  specification  of  Cintra  called  for  a  mild 
protest.  "  It  isn't  in  any  sense  Miss  Eraser's  fault,"  said  he. 
"  If  either  one  of  them  is  to  blame  for  it,  I  should  say  it  was 
Fred.  Yes,  certainly  Fred,  if  one  must  blame  somebody.  I've 
told  him  no  man  should  make  a  girl  an  offer  unless  he  feels 
as  sure  as   .    .    ." 

"As  one  does  oneself?  Is  that  it?"  Charley  gave  a  short 
nod  of  assent,  all  he  could  spare  at  the  moment  from  his  admira- 
tion of  the  speaker.  She  continued : — "  Don't  sit  on  the  edge  of 
the  sofa  and  glare  round  at  me  through  that  odious  monocle. 
It  makes  you  screw  up  your  face  to  a  grin,  and  it  isn't  be- 
coming." Charley  abated  the  demeanour  complained  of.  "  Now 
tell  me  about  the  girl.  .  .  .  No — put  it  away !  You  can  see 
me  just  as  well  without  it." 

"  You  do  look  so  awfully  jolly  in  the  lampshade  light,"  said 
the  gentleman,  humbly.  "  You've  no  idea  how  awfully  jolly 
you  look."    He  suppressed  the  eyeglass,  though. 

"  Yes  I  have.  I'm  not  a  shepherdess."  This  disclaimer  of 
Arcadian  innocence  was  suggested  by  a  fascinating  little  porce- 
lain figure  on  a  console.  "  Not  that  they  didn't  know.  That 
one  knows.  Little  minx  !  .  .  .  Now  about  the  girl !  The  girl 
Cynthia,  or  whatever  her  name  is."  A  brisk  tap  with  a  paper 
knife,  carved  by  some  unknown  Oriental  through  half  a  lifetime, 
recalled  Charley  from  the  shepherdess,  about  whom  he  seemed 
to  be  solving  a  problem. 

"  Cintra,  not  Cynthia,"  said  he,  recalled.  "  Her  parents  spent 
their  honeymoon  at  Lisbon,  and  called  her  Cintra  after  Cintra. 
They  thought  it  such  a  ripping  place." 

"  People  do.  Well — she  hasn't  grown  up  quite  so  .  .  . 
ripping,  if  you  must  use  unintelligible  English.  .  .  .  Don't 
look  so  injured.     I  wasn't  going  to  call  her  dowdy." 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  255 

"  No-o  !     I  didn't  supi^ose  you  were." 

"  Perhaps  I've  no  right  to  express  an  opinion.  I  really  hardly 
spoke  to  her.  I  only  go  by  looks.  But  .  .  .  Cintra !  It 
really  is   ..." 

"A  large  order?     That's  the  idea,  isn't  it?" 

"  Possibly  that's  the  right  expression.  I  couldn't  say.  I 
think  perhaps,  if  I  had  been  asked,  I  should  have  advised  any 
English's  child's  parents  not  to  call  it  Cintra.  Why  couldn't 
they  call  her  Hoxton,  or  Hackney  Wick  ?  " 

Charley  sought  safety  in  weighing  the  merits  of  these  two 
names.  "  Shouldn't  care  about  Hoxton/'  said  he.  "  Not  for  a 
girl.  Hackney  Wick's  rather  another  pair  of  shoes.  More 
flippety-squippety  kind  of  a  name !     More  like  Nancy." 

The  young  lady  entered  into  this  comparison  of  names. 
"  Nancy — Hackney  Wick — Nancy !  "  said  she,  to  see  their  effect. 
"  Do  we  know  any  Nancy,  to  try  it  on  ?  " 

"  I  was  thinkin'  of  her  sister  Nancy — Cintra's." 

"  Oh — that's  a  sister  I  haven't  seen." 

''  Yes,  it  is.     She  sat  next  to  Mrs.  Carteret,  on  her  left." 

"  I  only  knew  she  was  Miss  Eraser,  then.  But  which  is  the 
one  I've  heard  you  call  Elbrouz  ?  " 

"  Her.     Only  '  Elbows  '  is  what  we  call  her." 

"  Oh — Elbows  !  But  why  ?  "  Yes,  why  was  that  taller  girl, 
whom  Lucy  had  thought  quite  the  more  interesting  of  the  two 
sisters,  to  be  called  "  Elbows  "  ? 

Charley,  called  to  account,  lacked  decision.  *'  Well — you  see 
— it's  a  sort  of  idea !  An  association'!  Elbows — the  idea  of 
elbows !  " 

"What  is  the  idea?"  It  occurred  to  Miss  Lucy — not  un- 
naturally, especially  as  her  own  beautiful  arms  were  in  evidence, 
all  but  an  inch  or  so — that  Nature  might  throw  a  light  on  the 
subject.  She  endeavoured  to  get  an  insight  into  the  idea  of 
elbows  by  glancing  first  at  one  of  her  own,  then  at  the  other, 
and  failed  to  get  round  either  corner. 

"  A  bony  idea,"  said  her  lover.  "  Yours  won't  wash,  and  are 
not  in  it.  Besides,  you  can't  see  'em  without  a  looking-glass. 
It  stands  to  reason.  Now  I  come  to  think  of  it,  I  can't  say 
exactly  why  we  called  her  Elbows.  You  would  see  at  once  if 
you  knew  her.     But  I'm  sorry  to  say  she's  had  a  bad  fall." 

"  I  suppose  that's  consecutive." 

"  No,  it  isn't,  very.  However,  she  has  fallen  off  her  bicycle 
and  was  all  but  killed,  I  believe.     She's  at  Fred's  mother's." 

"  What's  she  doing  there  ?  " 


366  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

"  They're  very  thick. .  She  spent  Sunday  with  Mrs.  Carteret, 
and  was  going  home  in  the  dark,  on  her  bike   ..." 

"  Mamma !  "     Miss  Lucy  d'id  not  seem  keen  to  know  details. 

"  Ye-GS,  mv  dear  !     Go  on." 

"I  sliall  not  go  with  you  to  the  Topley  Skimmers'  tea  to- 
morrow. I  shall  go  over  to  Mrs.  Carteret's,  and  must  have 
the  carriage.  I  can  take  a  card  of  yours.  You  needn't  come. 
I  can  send  the  carriage  back  in  time  for  you.  You  see," — she 
was  addressing  Charles — "  I  have  never  called,  and  may  as  well 
go  to-morrow.  If  Mrs.  Carteret  is  not  in,  I  can  come  back 
and  go  to  the  Topley  Skimmers'  with  mamma.  .  .  .  Yes — ^you 
were  saying  .    .    .  ? " 

"  She  met  a  vehicle  coming  round  the  corner  on  the  wrong  side 
of  the  road,  and  got  knocked  over,  and  was  considerably  dam- 
aged. Head.  She's  still  there  and  may  not  be  fit  to  move  for 
awhile.     Doosid  awkward." 

"Why?" 

"  Don't  you  call  it  awkward  when  the  sister  of  a  girl  your 
son's  engaged  to  gets  smashed,  and  is  brought  home  to  your 
house — alive  you  know,  not  in  pieces — and  can't  be  moved — and 
your  son  gets  his  engagement  broken  off   .    .    ." 

"  No,  certainly  not !  Why  should  it  make  any  difference  to 
the  families?     Besides,  they  may  break  it  on  again." 

"'  Not  this  time !  "  said  Charles,  with  comically  serious  good 
faith  in  his  case.     "  It's  for  good." 

"  It  always  is." 

"  No — they've  really  made  up  their  minds." 

"  They  always  have."  Charley  evidently  shook  his  head  men- 
tally. The  young  lady  seemed  to  think  this  topic  had  had  its 
day,  by  the  way  in  which  she  said : — "  Anyhow,  I  shall  call  to- 
morrow. If  I  see  neither  of  them  it  doesn't  matter.  .  .  . 
Mamma  dear,  I  wish  you  wouldn't  moon."  This  referred  to  a 
certain  disposition  to  sail  slowly  about  the  drawing-room  on  the 
part  of  the  older  lady,  with  some  show  of  a  bias  towards  tentative 
rearrangement  of  ornaments.  It  was  aesthetic,  not  domestic. 
If  there  had  been  anyone  to  impress,  she  might  have  been  open 
to  suspicion  of  consciousness  of  an  imj)erial  crimson  satin;  one 
tliat  Paul  Veronese  would  have  gone  for.  But  there  was  no 
one  but  Charley,  and  his  eyes  only  saw  the  daughter. 

She  ignored  that  young  person's  disrespectful  wish,  merely 
saying : — "  I  can  wait.  Only  say  when  3'ou  are  ready  and  they 
can  shut  up."  Lucy  replied  flippantly : — "  Nonsense,  Mamma  ! 
As   if   it   mattered    when    Peterfield   went    to   bed,   to   half   a 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  257 


minute ! " — that  being  the  name  of  the  model  butler.  To 
Charles,  who  was  wavering  under  her  mother's  broad  hint,  she 
said  imperiously : — "  Don't  go ! !  Xever  mind  mamma.  I  want 
to  talk  about  that  house.     Sit  down."     He  obeyed. 

The  mother  awaked  from  her  aesthetic  dream,  and  joined  in 
the  conversation.  "  I  was  forgetting  about  that  house.  iVre  the 
people  ready  to  sell  it,  or  not?  "  She  subsided  into  an  armchair, 
to  hear  particulars. 

"  Well — you  see,"  said  Charley,  "  they  only  got  my  letter 
yesterday  morning.  Give  the  poor  beggars  time  to  turn 
round." 

"  Charles,"  said  the  beauty,  in  a  warning  voice,  "  I  have  a 
horrible  presentiment  about  that  house.     We  shall  lose  it." 

"  I  can't  see,"  said  her  mother,  "  that  it  so  very  much  matters. 
I  suppose  that  Mr.  Carteret  and  Miss  What-was-her-name  have 
come  to  an  end  for  good." 

"  Oh  dear  yes.  Mamma.  Either  they  have  or  they  haven't. 
It  doesn't  matter  which.  ^^^lat  can  it  matter?  I  want  the 
house  anyhow,  and  I  shall  be  bitterly  disappointed  if  we  have 
lost  it.  Can't  you  write  to  them  again,  Charles,  and  say  they 
may  have  the  two  thousand  pounds?"  Charles  explained  that 
the  only  effect  of  this  would  be  that  they  would  immediately 
say  the  two  thousand  had  been  a  mistake  for  three.  On  which 
Miss  Lucy  said  in  a  voice  of  conviction : — "  I  see  how  it  will  be. 
We  shall  lose  that  house." 

Her  mother  said : — "  Can't  imagine,  Lu,  what  makes  you  so 
in  love  with  the  place.  The  neighljourhood's  odious ;  at  least, 
it  was  you  said  so.  /  don't  know.  The  house  seems  to  be  large 
enough  for  two  young  people  beginning.  But  how  on  earth  you 
would  have  split  it  in  half,  so  as  to  do  for  both,  quite  passe? 
my  comprehension." 

"Well — we  shall  lose  the  house    ..." 

W^hen  a  middle-aged  lady,  who  has  evidently  been  handsome 
once,  albeit  a  little  dried  up  now,  shuts  her  eyes  to  talk,  she 
does  not  mean  to  be  stopped.  Mrs.  Hinchliffo  contin^ied : — 
"  Buy  it  by  all  means,  if  you  have  made  up  your  minds.  Only 
please  let  it  be  understood  that  I  had  nothing  to  do  with  it. 
As  for  losins:  the  house,  that's  nonsense !  It  seems  to  have  been 
empty  for  fifteen  years.  And  didn't  you  say  there  was  a  public- 
house  next  door  ?  " 

"  Oh  dear  no ! — miles  off.  But  it  doesn't  matter.  I  foresee 
we  shall  lose  that  house." 

"  Nonsense,  child !      People  have  had  plenty  of  chances  of 


258  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

taking  it  for  fifteen  years,  and  nobody  has  taken  it.  Nobody 
will.'' 

"  We  shall  see.     When  it's  too  late." 

"  Wliy — nobody  ever  sees  the  house." 

"  Oh  dear  yes,  they  do !  Hundreds  of  people !  There  were 
people  at  it  when  we  were  there  on  Saturday.  They  seemed 
delighted.  You  saw  them."  She  turned  her  splendid  dark  eyes 
round  on  her  lover. 

But  his  only  met  them  with  astonishment.  "  I  saw  no 
people,"  said  he. 

"  Perhaps  I  shouldn't  have  said  people.  People's  too  many. 
You  saw  the  old  gentleman,  though?  The  others  were  some- 
where else." 

"I  saw  no  old  gentleman.     \Vlien?     Where?" 

"  Stupid  !  The  old  gentleman  we  passed  in  the  passage.  .  .  . 
The  old  gentleman  that  looked  like  a  rector.  .  .  .  The  long 
passage  that  leads  to  the  greenhouse.  Notv  you  know."  The 
greenhouse  seemed  to  be  the  climax  of  identification,  Avarranting 
an  impatient  finger-tap  on  Charley's  coat-sleeve  to  rouse  and 
accelerate  his  powers  of  recollection. 

But  it  was  ineffectual.  He  only  looked  puzzled,  tried  hard  to 
recollect,  visibly;  but  w^as  compelled  to  a  slow  continuous  head- 
shake  of  confessed  failure.  "  There  were  the  two  old  caretaker 
people,"  said  he,  dubiously.  He  only  mentioned  them  as  two 
collateral  facts,  not  as  illuminating  the  subject.  He  then  went 
on  repeating : — ''  The  old  gentleman  we  passed  in  the  passage — 
old  gentleman  we  passed  in  the  passage,"  several  times,  and 
ended  up  with,  "  Xo — I  don't  see  my  way  to  any  old  gentleman. 
Sorry  I  can't  accommodate  you." 

"  Then  all  I  can  say  is — how  do  you  expect  to  get  on  at  the 
Bar?  .  .  .  Well — as  a  lawyer,  then!  Bother  the  bar! — you 
know  what  I  mean.  You  certainly  are  iiot  sharp,  Charles." 
The  young  man  seemed  rather  gratified  than  otherwise  at  this 
castigation ;  indeed,  each  word  that  came  from  this  young  lady's 
beautiful  lips  seemed  more  enchanting  than  the  last,  no  matter 
how  censorious  it  was.     He  offered  his  cheek  to  the  smiter. 

But  he  looked  mortally  puzzled,  too !  What  on  earth  was  this 
story  of  an  old  gentleman?  That  he  was  actual — no  dream — 
was  not  a  subject  for  doubt.  His  duty  to  his  idol  forbade  it. 
How  question  any  statement  she  chose  to  make?  Every  word 
was  sacred.  And  as  for  the  possibility  of  pleasantry,  where 
would  the  joke  be,  and  what  the  object  of  it? 

What  flashed  across  his  mind  most  vividly  was  that  it  would 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  259 

never  do  for  Fred  to  hear  that,  on  the  very  spot  where  his  uncle 
was  last  seen,  an  accidental  divine,  who  might  have  been  any- 
body, had  been  seen  by  Miss  Hinchliffe  and  invisible  to  himself. 
He  knew  well  how  prone  the  human  mind  is  to  mystery- 
mongering,  especially  at  times  when  mystery  is  afoot  on  its  own 
account.  Moreover,  there  had  already  been  some  rot  about  a 
voice  that  called  out,  in  that  very  place !  But  to  ask  his 
divinity  to  hold  her  tongue  about  the  incident  would  exag- 
gerate its  importance  and  fix  it  in  her  mind,  while  in  the  natural 
course  of  things  it  would  be  soon  forgotten. 

Perhaps  on  the  whole  it  was  wisest  to  say,  as  he  did: — 
"  Rum !  ",  and  allow  the  event  to  find  its  own  way  to  Oblivion. 

Moreover,  he  perceived  that  if  he  said  no  more  on  the  subject, 
he  would  be  under  no  obligation  to  dwell  upon  the  fact  that  this 
old  gentleman,  if  he  were  again  referred  to,  had  been  unseen  by 
him.  Indeed,  who  could  say  that  he  might  not  recollect  having 
seen  him,  if  he  could  only  succeed  in  forgetting  that  he  had  not 
done  so  ? 


CHAPTER  XVII 

Said  Mrs.  Carteret,  coming  downstairs  from  a  visitor 
unknown,  to  the  bedroom  still  in  possession  of  Cintra's  sister 
Xancy : — "  It's  the  good-looking  young  woman  that's  going  to 
marry  your  hcte-noire — I  won't  mention  his  name  for  fear  of 
enraging  you    .    .    ." 

"  Mr.  tlglibus.  I  know.  Fred's  friend.  She's  perfectly 
divine." 

"  Well — the  question  is,  shall  I  bring  her  in  here?  She  wants 
to  come.'* 

"Bring  her  in?  Bather,  if  she  doesn't  mind!  Only  look 
here.  Put  her  in  a  good  light  where  I  shall  see  her.  I  want 
something  to  gloat  over.    .    .    .   Yes — like  that !  " 

Thus  it  came  about  that,  on  the  afternoon  following,  Miss 
Lucy  Hinchliffe  floated  into  the  apartment  still  occupied  by 
Xancy  Eraser  under  protest,  as  that  young  lady  was  convinced 
that,  in  theory,  she  was  quite  fit  to  be  sent  home.  Indeed,  for 
that  matter,  fit  to  bicycle  home,  as  she  had  come.  But  she 
showed  no  great  physical  alacrity  towards  getting  up  out  of  the 
bed  to  which — according  to  her — the  scruples  of  medical  ef- 
feminacy had  condemned  her. 

Xow,  if  Xancy  had  been  duly  alive  to  the  share  that  this 
youns"  beauty  had  had  in  breaking  up  her  sister's  engagement — 
beyond  a  bare  suspicion — she  might  have  been  much  less  dis- 
posed for  an  interview  with  her.  But  Cintra  had  said  nothing 
in  her  letter,  received  by  Xancy  on  the  previous  morning,  to 
that  effect.  Xor  indeed  had  she  given  any  details,  saying  merely 
that  she  and  Frederic  had  talked  the  matter  well  over,  and  had 
agreed  to  part,  as  the  best  course,  for  both ;  with  the  retention 
of  an  edifying  amount  of  friendship,  cultivated  as  a  sort  of 
religious  duty.  She  inaugurated  this  last  by  declining  to  come 
over  to  see  her  sister,  as  it  might  involve  what  under  the  cir- 
cumstances could  only  be  considered  a  coniretemps.  When 
the  friendship  had  mellowed  up  to  a  fine  bouquet,  it  would 
be  time  to  think  about  uncorking  it.  Eric  would  come 
over  every  day,  and  would  bring  back  word.  It  may  be  noted 
too  that  Mrs.  Carteret  had  continued  in  much  ignorance  of  the 
immediate  cause  of  the  disruption.     So  that  Xancy  was  too  in-. 

260 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  261 

definite  in  her  impression  that  Lucy  was  responsible  for  it  to 
feel  any  reluctance  for  her  society  on  that  account.  Indeed,  the 
attributino;  of  any  responsibility,  other  than  an  unconscious  one, 
to  any  lady  who  caused  jealousy  in  another,  would  have  been, 
according  to  her  view,  not  playing  the  game.  She  resented  the 
vernacular  condition  of  mind  which  always  imputes  the  most 
share  in  any  imbroglio  to  the  best-looking  woman.  So  she  felt 
herself  in  honour  bound  to  acquit  any  culprit  all  the  more  in 
proportion  to  her  beauty. 

A  slight  concussion  of  the  brain  leaves  the  eyelids  very  heavy, 
and  those  that  Xancy  raised  to  see  the  sight  felt  that  nothing 
less  would  keep  them  open.  It  was  they  too  that  glued  her  to 
that  pillow.  Having  been  "  persuaded  "  to  lie  in  bed,  it  was  as 
well  to  take  advantage  of  it. 

"  Oh  dear,  I  am  so  sorry!  "  said  Miss  Luc}^  effusively.  As  it 
was  as  well  to  be  hanged  for  a  sheep  as  a  lamb,  she  grasped  her 
nettle,  and  pretended  that  she  and  Nancy  were  familiar  friends. 
As  a  matter  of  fact,  they  had  barely  spoken  together  on  that 
day  of  the  luncheon  party.  "  Wliat  a  terrible  business !  But  you 
really  are  going  to  be  all  right  again?  " 

"  I've  nothing  the  matter  with  me.  As  well  as  I  ever  was  in 
my  life.     I'm  only  lying  here  to  please  the  doctor." 

"  And  me,  if  you  please !  "  said  Mrs.  Carteret.  Then  to  her 
visitor : — "  It  really  is  only  to  be  on  the  safe  side."  Miss 
Hinchliffe  broke  into  a  paean  in  praise  of  precaution,  which  ]\Irs. 
Carteret  arrested  to  say: — "  You  won't  mind  my  going?  That's 
my  son  who  has  just  come  in,  and  I  particularly  want  to  see 
him."  Miss  Hinchliffe's  manner  combined  mortal  regret  that 
she  and  the  speaker  should  ever  part,  with  an  almost  passionate 
eagerness  to  stand  out  of  the  way  of  the  door. 

She  came  to  an  anchor  in  the  chair  that  had  been  predestined 
for  her,  after  exhibiting  humility  in  an  attempt  to  select  an 
inferior  one;  reasonlcssly,  as  its  success  would  have  left  the 
appointed  one  without  the  occupant,  and  a  place  for  a  ghost 
is  uncalled  for.  Conversation  then  hovered  round  topics  of  no 
immediate  interest. 

But  Miss  Hinchliffe  had  not  come  to  talk  about  the  price  of 
things,  the  fashions,  or  the  weather ;  nor  even  about  the  advan- 
tages or  otherwise  of  a  variable  gear  for  bicycles.  Her  manner 
dismissed  Sturmey-Archer,  and  she  gathered  up,  as  it  were,  for 
seriousness,  as  she  said : — '*'  Now  I  hope,  dear  Miss  Eraser,  you'll 
forgive  me  for  wanting  to  talk  about  your  dear  sister  and  Mr. 
Frederic  Carteret." 


262  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

"  Couple  of  geese !  "  said  Nancy,  trenchantly. 

"  Oh,  I'm  so  glad  to  hear  you  say  that." 

"  Of  course  I  say  that.     What  would  anybody  say?  '* 

"  It's  quite  a  relief  to  me.  You  know  it  has  been  the  most 
bitter  disappointment  to  Charles  and  myself." 

"  What  has  ?  " 

"  Why,  of  course ! — our  delightful  castle  in  the  air." 

"Which  one  is  that?" 

"  You  laugh  at  us.  But  it  has  really  been  a  serious  disap- 
pointment to  Charles.  .  .  .  The  one  they  say  was  a  madhouse 
out  beyond  Wimbledon." 

"  You  wanted  to  halve  the  house  with  those  two  geese  ?  " 

"  With  those  two  other  geese.  Yes,  I  believe  Mr.  Frederic 
Carteret  had  made  out  complete  plans  for  the  division  into  two 
parts.  Oh  dear — it  was  such  a  delightful  scheme !  And 
now   ..." 

"  You've  lost  the  house — is  that  it  ?  " 

"  Well — not  exactly  that !  Because  we  are  buying  the  house 
— I  suppose  I  should  say  my  mother  is  buying  it.  I  don't  pro- 
fess to  understand  these  things.  It's  to  be  our  house — I  know 
that.  What  we  are  both  lamenting  over  is  the  collapse  of  the 
delightful  arrangement  of  the  housekeeping,  or  being  next-door 
neighbours  at  any  rate.  Charles  was  looking  forward  so  to  hav- 
ing his  friend  so  near.  But  of  course  from  the  point  of  view  of 
their  being  only  a  couple  of  geese  .  .  .  Oh,  my  dear  Miss 
Fraser,  how  grateful  I  am  to  you  for  the  expression !  " 

"  You're  very  welcome.  Only  mind  you ! — I've  only  had  one 
letter  from  Cintra  about  it.  It  isn't  as  if  we  had  talked  it  over. 
I  may  be  mistaken." 

"  But  you  do  think  it  may  be  all  a  false  alarm,  and  they  may 
make  it  up  again." 

Nancy  laughed  aloud  at  the  speaker's  scared  tone.  "  Eather," 
said  she,  slangily,  "  I  should  say  it  was  ten  to  one  they  would. 
I've  written  to  Cit  to  l^low  her  up.  But  I  shall  be  fit  to  ride 
back  to-morrow — see  if  I'm  not!  And  I  mean  to  pitch  it  hot 
and  strong  into  the  young  woman.  She's  the  sort  that  wants  a 
little  decision.  And  really,  if  I'm  right  about  the  cause  of  this 
shindy,  she  is  the  biggest  goose." 

"  I  suppose  I  mustn't  ask  what  it  was — the  cause?  " 

To  the  frank  integrity  of  Miss  Nancy's  nature  this  speech 
was  all-powerful  to  scatter  what  remained  of  her  suspicions  of 
her  visitor,  and  was  almost  proof  positive  that  that  young  lady 
was  honestly  unconscious  of  her  own  complicity.     How  could 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  263 

those  beautiful  dark  eyes  that  gazed  into  hers  so  anxiously  and 
candidly  be  the  eyes  of  a  mischief-making  minx  ?  That  was  the 
form  her  question  would  have  taken,  had  it  reached  language. 
Nancy  wavered  on  the  edge  of  an  unreserved  confidence — a  full 
disclosure  of  her  suspicions.  But  prudence  prevailed.  For  if 
she  replied: — "  Of  course  it  was  you — the  cause,"  on  what  lines 
could  the  joint  housekeeping  at  The  Cedars  ever  be  conducted? 
Such  a  mutual  consciousness  between  the  two  mistresses  would 
surely  damn  the  whole  arrangement,  were  the  breach  between  the 
separated  lovers  to  be  healed  over  with  never  a  scar.  A  hurried 
review  of  these  considerations  made  her  answer : — "  I  think  I 
would  rather  not  tell  you,  if  you  don't  mind." 

"  Why,  of  course  !  As  if  I  had  a  right  to  pry  into  your  sister's 
affairs !  "  Nancy  immediately  felt  as  if  she  had  given  a  rude 
rebuff,  and  must  make  some  amende  honorahle.  The  beauty  pro- 
ceeded : — "  You  see,  I  really  am  a  perfect  stranger  if  you  come 
to  think  of  it."  She  really  was,  but  the  perfect  candour  of  her 
disavowal  of  intimacy  sent  strangership  flying.  Nancy  felt  that 
she  was  not  a  stranger  because  she  said  she  was. 

Here  was  the  opportunity  for  the  amende.  "  We  may  be 
strangers,"  said  she,  "  but  if  Cit  comes  to  her  senses,  shan't  we 
be  a  sort  of  wishy-washy  sisters-in-law?  '.  .  .  Well,  no — not 
quite,  I  admit.  But  that  kind  of  thing.  Because  Fred  Carteret 
and  Mr.  Snaith  are  as  good  as  brothers,  aren't  they  ?  " 

"  Better  than  some  brothers.  Charles  is  simply  heartbroken 
about  this  miscarriage.  You'll  quite  understand  me,  dear  Miss 
Fraser,  if  I  say  that  it  is  on  his  account  that  I  feel  it  so  strongly. 
I  don't  mean  that  I  shall  not  be  dreadfully  sorry  to  lose  your 
sister.  .  .  .  Because — because  ..."  It  was  rather  difficult 
to  round  up  this  sentence  out  of  the  materials  at  her  disposal ;  so 
the  speaker  clasped  her  hands  in  a  sort  of  mild  frenzy, 
exclaiming : — "  Oh  dear ! — you  know  the  sort  of  thing  I 
mean." 

Nancy  didn't,  but  it  didn't  matter.  She  said  she  did.  Those 
eyes,  that  she  could  not  take  her  own  off,  were  at  work  upon 
her,  and  she  certainly  was  not  going  to  refuse  to  accommodate 
their  owner  with  such  a  very  small  compliance.  She  was  quite 
ready  to  pretend  that  this  young  lady  had  become  somehow 
embosomed  in  her  family;  that  she  had  a  perfect  right  to  be 
desolated  at  any  miscarriage  of  its  affairs.  But  she  reflected  on 
the  oddity  of  the  position.  Was  she  sure  that  this  solicitude 
from  a  stranger  would  be  welcomed  by  all  its  members?  A 
dream  of  Cintra  crossed  her  mind,  thanking  this  Miss  What's- 


264  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

her-name  to  keep  her  eondoleuees  to  herself  till  they  were  asked 
for. 

But  Cintra  would  not  come  near  Maida  A^ale,  for  fear  of 
meeting  Fred;  so  Nancy  might  pretend  to  her  heart's  content. 
Besides,  how  could  she  anticipate  Cintra's  resentment  against 
any  Miss  What's-her-name's  impertinence,  when  she  herself  was 
impertinently  wondering  all  the  while  how  the  Miss  What's-her- 
name  could  endure  to  have  Mr.  Snaith  ki  .  .  ,  But  her  mind 
flinched  from  completion  of  the  verb,  and  was  even  in  doubt 
whether  she  ought  to  think  of  the  gentleman  as  "  Mr.  Nosey,'' 
which  was  the  designation  it  had  employed. 

Did  you  ever  feel  that  bosom-friendship  was  overtaking  you 
apace ;  for  someone  of  your  own  sex,  of  course  ?  Ten  to  one  you 
have,  if  yours  is  the  female  one.  Nancy  felt  it  coming  on,  and 
resigned  herself  to  its  influence,  especially  when  the  Miss  ^^^at's- 
her-name,  quite  ofl:  her  own  bat,  brought  her  chair  a  little  nearer. 
But  she  was  laying  down  conditions  all  the  while,  Nancy  was; 
one,  for  instance,  that  she  should  get  at  the  mystery  of  her  visi- 
tor's entichement  for  Mr.  Nosey. 

Not  that  she  supposed  that  she  should  get  so  far  as  that 
during  this  interview,  or  perhaps  the  next  one.  She  would  have 
to  be  content,  for  the  present,  with  the  merest  surface  chat. 
Was  not  Mr.  Snaith  a  very  clever  lawyer?  That  seemed  to  her 
a  good  way  of  getting  her  visitor  to  talk  about  this  gentleman, 
in  whom  the  questioner  felt  absolutely  no  interest,  except  to  dis- 
cover how  so  uninteresting  a  person  could  have  engaged  the 
afi'ections  of  one  so  fascinating,  so  superior  to  himself  in  every 
way. 

"  Charles  Snaith  may  be  very  clever,"  said  she,  shrugging  her 
perfect  shoulders  and  laughing,  more  tolerantly  than  respect- 
fully. "  I  daresay  he  is.  But  he  keeps  it  for  business  hours. 
I  can't  say  I  ever  saw  it  in  society.  But  he's  very  good  and 
upright  and  all  that  sort  of  thing." 

Nancy  fairly  stared  with  astonishment.  "  Well !  "  said  she, 
"  I  couldn't  marry  a  man  because  he  was  good.  Or  upright.  I 
should  require  him  to  be  handsome  at  least,  even  if  he  wasn't 
clever." 

Miss  Hinchlifl'e  was  stretching  the  fingers  of  a  lemon-coloured 
kid  glove  round  her  beautiful  right  hand,  and  seemed  to  defer 
her  reply  to  get  an  accurate  measurement.  Then  she  said,  with 
a  sigh : — ''  How  true  that  is !  Charles  is  not  handsome.  .  .  . 
Oh  no,  dear  ]\Iiss  Fraser,  I  know  you  didn't  say  so.  You  are 
much  too  kind-hearted."     She  took  the  beautiful  eyes  off  the 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  265 

glove  problem  to  say : — "  But  you  did  mean  it.     Now,  didn't 
you?  " 

The  circumstances  called  for  a  good  round  fib.  But  fibs  Aveve 
not  Nancy's  line.  She  considered  a  moment — a  pause  for  con- 
sideration being  her  only  tribute  to  mendacity — and  then  said : — 
"Well — I  did!  And  it's  no  use  saying  I  didn't.  But  I  didn't 
say  I  was  a  beauty  myself.  We're  both  in  the  same  boat,  he 
and  I.     Fellow-townspeople — that  sort  of  thing !  "  * 

"  I  should  like  to  live  in  that  town.  It  would  be  very  inter- 
esting. But  do  poor  Mr.  Snaith  justice.  He  never  said  he  was 
a  beauty." 

"  Did  he  say  I  was  ?     Come  now  !  " 

It  was  Miss  Lucy's  turn  to  feel  that  concealment  was  useless. 
Said  she,  evasively : — "  I  don't  think  I  ever  heard  him  talk  about 
.    .    .    about  looks." 

"Did,  you,  ever,  hear  him — say  I  was  a  beauty?  That's  the 
point !  " 

Miss  Hinchliffe  made  a  moue  and  raised  her  eyebrows  slightly. 
"  We-ell !  "  said  she.  "  I  don't  suppose  I  ever  did.  So  it's  no 
use  saying  so.     Is  it  ?  " 

"  Now,  do  tell  me  the  sacred  solemn  truth!  Did  you  ever  hear 
him  call  me  by  a  nickname  ?  " 

Miss  Hinchliffe  looked  as  if  she  felt  that  the  conversation  was 
rather  absurd.     "  What  nickname  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  Oh,  very  well  then ! — he  calls  me  several.  I  have  no  doubt 
of  it.  He  and  Fred  Carteret !  I'm  not  in  a  rage  Avith  them, 
you  know." 

"  No — I  see  you  are  laughing.  But  do  tell  me  which  nick- 
name it  was.  How  can  I  tell  that  any  two  of  Charles's 
nicknames  belong  to  the  same  person?" 

"  Is  it  possible  that  ?  .  .  .  Don't  make  me  really  laugh,  be- 
cause of  my  head !  .  .  .  Is  it  possible  that  you  never  heard 
the  expression  'Elbows'  applied  to — to  this  connection?" 

"  If  I'm  to  tell  the  truth  ...  All  right ! — I'm  c:oino;  to. 
...  If  I'm  to  tell  the  truth,  I  have  heard  that  expression, 
and  I  thought  it  was  Elbrouz,  because  of  your  sister  being 
Cintra." 

"Elbrouz  is  a  town  in  Persia,  isn't  it?  Or  Mesopotamia: 
It  doesn't  matter  which,  as  I  wasn't  called  after  it.  Cit  was 
called  after  Cintra.  It's  in  Portugal.  And  Portugal  is  a  little 
outlandish,  but  still  possible.  Mesopotamia  is  out  of  all 
reason." 

"  Charles  explained  that  it  was   Elbows,  not   Elbrouz.     But 


266  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

he  couldn't  assign  any  reason  for  its  use — any  reasonable 
reason.  .  .  .  You  were  feeling  to  see  ?  For  Nancy's  hands  had 
vanished  up  the  two  sleeves  of  her  kimono. 

'•'  Yes,"  said  she.  "  Feeling  for  something  distinctive  or  char- 
acteristic. But  they  seem  normal.  By-the-bye,  I  never  thought 
of  it  before — never  thought  of  them,  in  fact!  How  awfully  out 
of  it  the  poor  things  must  feel !  Xo  one  ever  takes  the  slightest 
notfte  of  them.  And  they  can't  talk  to  one  another  about  it,  by 
nature."  Nancy  seemed  to  think  that  this  required  revision. 
For  she  added,  a  moment  later : — "  Unless  one  pulls  them  to- 
gether behind  one's  back,  like  Calisthenics.  Perhaps  one  ought 
to,  to  give  them  a  chance." 

"  Do  3'ou  know,  Charles  said  if  I  knew  you,  I  should  see  at 
once  ivliy  they  called  you  Elbows.  'I  must  say  I  think  his  legal 
acumen  is  at  fault,  for  once." 

"  I'm  no  judge,  as  a  party  concerned.  But  I  must  say  I  do 
think  that  anyone  who  saw  him  would  see  at  once  why  we  call 
him  .  .  .  But — oh  dear ! — I  suppose  I  oughtn't  to  have  said 
that !  " 

'•  Oh — but  do,  please !  I  would  give  anything  to  know  what 
you  call  him." 

"  I  can't.  It's  too  .  .  .  excessive.  It's  really  bad  taste. 
Only,  you  know,  of  course  it  has  all  been  in  the  strictest 
confidence." 

"  So  was  Elbows.  He  never  knew  when  he  told  me  that  I 
should  go  away  and  tell  you.  Besides,  if  you  don't  tell  me  now, 
I  shall  believe  it  was  worse  than  it  really  was.     Consider !  " 

"  Well — there  is  that !  "     Nancy  considered. 

"  Yes — there  is  that." 

"  And  you  are  quite  certain  not  to  tell  him.  However,  you 
couldn't  tell  him.  Of  course  not.  Only  it  is  to  be  the  silent 
tomb — that's  understood?  " 

"  Of  course  ! — the  silent  tomb." 

"  Well — Nosey,  then !  There !  .  .  .  Oh,  dear,  what  a  wig- 
ging I  should  get  from  Cintra  if  she  knew  I  had  told  that ! " 

Why  is  the  story  at  pains  to  record  such  absolutely  trivial 
chat?  Simply  because  of  the  bearing  its  very  triviality  has  on 
the  character  of  its  perpetrators.  The  story  hopes  too,  if  a  story 
can  be  said  to  hope,  that  some  of  the  most  trivial  passages  of 
this  conversation  will  remain  in  its  reader's  memory. 

As  for  Miss  Hinchliffe,  she  was  ready  to  acquiesce  in  any  topic 
that  came  to  hand,  provided  that  close  attention  to  details  was 
not  called  for.     For  although  her  visit  to  Nancy  had  been  at 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  267- 

her  own  express  wish — merely  to  consolidate,  as  it  were,  her 
foothold  in  the  house — she  was  keeping  an  eye,  or  rather  an  ear, 
the  whole  time,  on  the  man's  voice  on  the  upper  floor.  She 
could  not  do  what  would  have  pleased  her  best,  and  hark  back 
on  this  visit  to  Nancy,  and  exchange  the  girl's  society — for  that 
was  all  she  was;  interesting  and  original  perhaps,  but  a  mere 
girl  for  all  that — for  that  of  her  fiance's  good-looking  friend 
upstairs.  It  was  unfortunate  that  she  came  away  from  Mrs. 
Carteret  so  soon.  Another  three  minutes  and  Fred  would  have 
crossed  her  on  the  stairs. 

But  Fate's  last  word  on  this  visit  was  not  spoken.  A  sound 
of  winding-up  was  felt  more  than  heard  from  the  upper  region, 
and  it  was  obvious  that  the  male  voice  implied  its  owner's 
departure.  What  more  natural,  exits  being  on  the  tapis,  than 
that  Miss  Hinchliffe  should  look  at  her  watch,  and  become 
panic-stricken  at  the  lateness  of  the  hour?  Go  she  must — that 
was  clear !  As  to  the  exact  time  and  manner  of  her  going,  it 
justified  the  conversation  between  Nancy  and  her  hostess  which 
followed  it  almost  immediately. 

The  latter  came  into  the  room  after  her  son  had  departed,  the 
young  lady  having  gone  hurriedly  away  just  before  in  order — so 
she  said — not  to  get  mixed  up  with  him  in  the  passage,  a  thing 
she  hated.  She  liked,  she  said,  that  the  drama  of  human  life 
should  be  enacted  like  a  French  play,  with  a  well-defined  group 
to  every  scene.  "  Well,  Nancy  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Carteret.  "  How 
did  you  get  on  with  your  visitor  ?  " 

"  She  is  simply  lovely,"  said  Nancy,  considering  that  an 
emphatic  reply  on  her  main  j)oint — beauty,  to  wit — would  answer 
for  everyone  else's. 

"  Her  looks  are  all  very  well.  But  how  does  she  impress  you? 
She  does  impress  you,  doesn't  she?  " 

"  I  suppose  she  does,  somewhere.  Only  it  doesn't  mark. 
Comes  off!  It's  always  like  that,  with  me,  when  looks  come  in. 
They  might  be  Judas  Iscariot — the  parties  might.  But  /  should 
never  know  it."  There  was  obduracy  for  its  own  sake  in  this 
attitude  of  Nancy's. 

Mrs.  Carteret  may  have  felt  this.  She  said,  gravely: — 
"  Would  you  trust  her?  " 

"  Oh  dear  yes — I'm  sure  I  should !     Look  at  her  eyes  !  " 

"  But  I  mean — would  you  feel  safe  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know  about  that.  Couldn't  say.  But  as  a  matter 
of  fact,  I  should  trust  her,  safe  or  no,  down  to  the  ground." 

"  I  hope  it  would   ..." 


268  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

"Pay?" 

"  I  hope  you  wouldn't  bo  disappointed." 

"  I  should  expect  not  to  ])e — so  it  wouldn't  matter.  But  what 
makes  you  so  down  iipon  her  ?  " 

"  I  may  be  all  wrong,  you  know.  One  is,  very  often.  But  I 
think  your  sister  may  be  right.  I  don't  mean  in  quarrelling 
with  Fred  about  it — because  it  is  quarrelling,  whatever  they 
may  say   ..." 

"  Oh,  they'll  make  it  up  all  right !  You  see  if  they  don't. 
But  go  on.     I  interrupted  you." 

"  I  was  going  to  say  that  when  Cintra  got  so  angry  with  her 
on  the  way  home,  that  day  you  met  her  here — you  told  me,  you 
know   ..." 

'"'  Oh  dear  yes !     Cit  was  in  a  towering  passion." 

"  Well — she  may  have  had  provocation." 

"  Oh !  "  said  Xancy,  abruptly.  She  said  it  in  the  way  in 
which  one  doesn't  welcome  a  new  thought.  She  seemed  to  dwell 
on  it  uneasily  for  a  moment  before  she  continued : — "  I'm  not 
very  sharp  at  this  sort  of  thing.  You  think  .  .  . 
what?" 

"  I  think — after  that  lunch — if  I  had  been  in  your  sister's 
place,  I  should  not  have  liked  the  idea  of  a  joint  household." 

"  I  see.  Perhaps  you're  right.  But  nothing  struck  me  at 
the  time.  Everything  seemed  quite  square.  Then  I'm  a  bad 
judge  of  this  sort  of  fun.     I'm  not  in  it." 

"  I  have  just  been  getting  Fred  to  tell  me  more.  This  about 
their  having  found  out  their  mistake  and  so  'forth  is  all  nonsense. 
"Wliat  your  brother  called  the  scrum  was  a  good  round  quarrel 
over  the  house  scheme.  Please  understand — I  take  your  sister's 
part !  " 

"  I  don't." 

"  Well — you're  her  sister.  Of  course  that  makes  a  difference. 
But  do  try  and  think  of  it  this  way — to  oblige  me.  Try  and 
think  how  you  would  feel  if  you  were  in  this  sort — it's  your  own 
expression ! — in  this  sort  of  fun.  Imagine  yourself  pledged  to 
become  the  wife  of  a  man  whom  you  credit  with  an  undivided 
affection  for  yourself   ..." 

"  Thing's  impossible  !     But  never  mind  ! — cut  along !  " 
"...   And  imagine  yourself  suddenly  convinced  that  he  is 
susceptible — suppose  we  say — to  someone  else."     Mrs.  Carteret 
paused,  for  her  hearer  to  assimilate  ideas. 

Nancy  accepted  the  pause,  and  came  to  a  decision  at  the  end 
of  it.     "  I  should  chuck  him,"  said  she. 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  269 

"  Then  you  would  act  on  less  provocation  than  your  sister's." 

"  I  don't  understand." 

"  Cintra  has  not  chucked  him  .  .  .  Eeally  you  are  the  most 
slangy  young  monkey  !   .    .    . " 

"  I  get  slangy  from  having  to  stop  in  bed.  Go  on !  .  .  . 
*  has  not  chucked  him  '   .    .    . " 

"...  Because  she  thought  he  admired  another  girl.  It 
was  more  than  that.  If  every  girl  acted  as  drastically  as  I 
understand  you  would  .  .  .  Well — how  many  engagements 
would  last  a  fortnight  ?  " 

'•  Precious  few,  I  daresay.  But  what  do  you  mean  by  '  more 
than  that'?" 

"  I  think  it's  pretty  clear.  Cintra's  provocation  was  that  slie 
was  asked  to  live  in  the  other  young  woman's  pocket — as  the 
phrase  is." 

Nancy  raised  the  still  heavy  eyelids  that  had  been  resting  after 
an  unusual  effort,  and  looked  at  her  friend  in  a  wondering, 
puzzled  way.  "  But  they  would  be  married — both  of  them !  " 
said  she.  "  That  would  be  all  settled  and  done  with."  Mrs. 
Carteret  bit  the  smile  she  could  scarcely  resist,  to  check  it,  with 
indifferent  success.  "  Why  are  you  laughing  at  me  ? "  said 
Nancy. 

"  Was  I  ?  Well-^perhaps  I  was !  You  are  so  very  unlike 
.  .  .  most  girls.  Most  girls  out  of  their  teens,  I  inean.  You. 
are  so  very  ..."     She  stopped. 

"  Why  not  say  innocent  at  once  and  have  done  with  it  ?  " 

'•  Because  it's  rather  an  offensive  expression,  on  the  whole." 

"  I'll  promise  not  to  be  violent  if  you  call  me  it." 

"  I  don't  think  I  meant  exactly  innocent.  Perhaps  I  should 
say  unworldly." 

"  There's  not  much  difference  in  the  offensiveness." 

"  I  don't  know  that  I  need  say  either.  What  I  meant  was, 
that  you  seem  to  have  lived  among  very  .  .  .  very  ivell- 
halanccd  people." 

Nancy  was  weighing  some  consideration  in  the  background  of 
her  mind.  "■'  I  was  thinking,"  said  she,  "  which  of  the  people 
down  our  road  are  well-balanced.  Fancy  they  nearly  all  are! 
There's  the  theatrical  lot  at  forty-seven  certainly — they  might 
bear  a  little  balancing.  But  all  the  rest  that  I  know  anything 
about  are  respectability  itself.  They  snap  at  each  other  all  day 
long,  and  go  to  church  regularly." 

"  I  think  I  follow  the  connection  of  your  ideas,"  said  Mrs. 
Carteret.     Her  amusement  at  her  young  friend's   way  of  ex- 

li 


270  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

pressing  herself  did  not  seem  to  prevent  her  understanding  its 
dominant  motif.  "  I  remember  wlien  I  was  young  I  used  to 
think  of  married  persons  very  much  as  you  do.  Only,  they  were 
always  elderly  and  had  large  families.  Do  you  suppose  that  all 
the  wives  and  husbands  who  figure  in  divorce  cases  are  like  that 
— like  the  well-balanced  people  in  your  suburb  ?  " 

"  Stodgy  and  respectable  ?  Oh  dear  no ! — there's  the  other 
sort.     But  then  they  are  dissolute." 

"  Don't  you  think  that  perhaps  you  classify  people  with  rather 
too  much  severity?" 

"  Perhaps  I  do.  But  what  I  meant  just  now,  when  I  said 
that  if  they  married  they  would  be  settled  and  done  with,  was 
that  then  they  would  know  where  they  were." 

"  And  do  you  think  that  if  Cintra  married  Fred  after  sus- 
pecting that — mind,  I  only  say  suspecting — that  he  had  shown 
a  susceptibility  to  another  young  lady,  she  would  be  able  to 
live  in  serene  security  in  the  same  house?  I  think  not.  I  don't 
think  matrimony  is  exactly  a  panacea  against  all  the  vagaries  of 
human  nature.  Remember  that  the  scrum,  or  shindy,  turned 
entirely  on  the  residence  of  the  two  couples  in  this  queer  old 
house.  No — on  the  whole  I  cannot  be  surprised  at  your  sister's 
attitude.  I  should  have  said  exactly  the  same  myself,  in  her 
position." 

"  Doesn't  a  good  deal  turn  on  the  other  party  ?  The  other 
young  woman?  " 

"  Almost  everything."  Mrs.  Carteret  spoke  very  gravely,  and 
seemed  to  await  Nancy's  comment  with  a  good  deal  of 
interest. 

"Well — then — in  this  case   ..."     Nancy  stopped  short. 

"  In  this  case — what?  " 

The  girl  raised  herself  from  the  pillow  that  still  had  such 
attractions  for  the  contused  head  that  had  completely  recovered, 
and  reclined  on  one  of  the  condemned  elbows.  "  Oh,  dearest 
Mrs.  Carteret,"  said  she,  "  you  never  can  imagine  ..."  She 
stopped  again,  with  an  excited,  distressed  look  on  her  face. 

"  I'm  very  sorry,  but — I  can." 

"Oh,  but  it  is  impossible — impossible!  You  should  have 
heard  her — only  Just  now — how  she  spoke." 

"  What  did  she  say  ?  " 

"  Promise  not  to  disbelieve  her  on  purpose !  " 

"  I  shall  be  only  too  glad  to  think  I  am  mistaken." 

Nancy  lay  down  again  to  recollect,  not  without  satisfaction. 
**  I  said  they  were  a  couple  of  geese,"  said  she,  "  and  that  they 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  271 

would  make  it  up  again  and  it  was  sure  to  be  all  right.     And 
she  was  so  glad    ..." 

"  Because  of  the  house  ?  " 

"  Oh  dear  no ! — simply  at  the  prospect  of  their  coming  to  live 
there.  The  failure  of  the  housekeeping  plan  doesn't  put  an  end 
to  the  house.  Indeed^  I  understood  her  to  say  that  her  mother 
had  bought  the  house." 

"  "What  else  did  she  say?  " 

"  She  said  what  a  terrible  disappointment  it  had  been  to 
Charles  and  herself  when  they  heard  the  engagement  was  broken 
ofE.  Particularly  Charles,  because  he  had  looked  forward  so  to 
having  his  friend  so  near  him.  And  now  it  would  be  all  right, 
and  how  grateful  she  was  to  me  for  calling  them  a  couple  of 
geese.  Then  she  supposed  she  mustn't  ask  what  was  the  cause 
of  the  row,  and  I  could  see  by  her  manner  that  she  was  igno- 
rance itself.     Anybody  could." 

"  Could  they  ?     What  did  you  say?  " 

"  Said  certainly  not.  Because  think  what  a  smasher  it  would 
have  been  to  the  house  plan — any  chance  that  was  left  of  it — if 
she  had  had  an  inkling   ..." 

"  What  a  smasher !  "  Mrs.  Carteret  acquiesced  somewhat 
drily.     "  What  did  she  say  to  that?" 

"  Said  of  course,  what  right  had  she  to  pry  into  my  sister's 
affairs  ?  And  then  we  got  off  the  line,  and  said  shouldn't  we  be 
a  sort  of  half-cooked  sisters-in-law  if  it  came  off  after  all — the 
wedding?  But  it  was  no  go,  because  though  your  Fred  and  her 
young  man  are  thicker  than  thieves,  they  are  not  exactly 
brothers." 

"Not  exactly  brothers.     And  then  you  let  it  alone?" 

"  Very  nearly.  She  got  rather  mixed  over  saying  how  sorry 
she  would  be  to  lose  Cintra.  Because,  don't  you  see,  she  and 
Cintra  scarcely  know  each  other  from  Adam." 

"They  might  get  as  far  as  that.  Anything  else?  I  mean, 
was  that  all  the  conversation  ?  " 

"  No — yes — no  !  I  wanted  to  ask  her — only  I  didn't — how 
she  could  stand  .  .  .  Well ! — how  she  could  stand  a  loverlike 
attitude  on  the  part  of  Nosey." 

"  Nosey  being  Mr.  Snaith  ?  " 

"  Precisely.  Let  me  see — then  she  got  it  out  of  me  that  I 
knew  that  he  and  Fred  called  me  Elbows,  and  I  admitted  that 
at  home  we  called  him  Nosey.  Then  she  looked  at  her  watch, 
and  went.     Said  she  should  walk  to  the  railway  station." 

"  When  was  that  ?     How  long  before  we  came  down  ?  " 


272  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

''  Very  little  time.     No  time." 

"  I  heard  the  street  door  just  as  we  came  into  the  passage. 
Was  that  her?  " 

"  I  expect  so.     I  heard  you  and  your  son  a  moment  later." 

"  Oh."  Mrs.  Carteret's  audible  concern  did  not  go  beyond  a 
monosyllable,  but  in  her  heart  she  was  hoping  that  Miss  Hinch- 
liffe  causht  her  train.     Also  that  Fred  didn't. 


o 


Fate  favoured  neither  wish, — or  both,  according  to  the  views 
we  take  of  trains  on  the  District  Eailway.  Can  one  catch  or 
lose  one's  train,  when — catch  it  or  miss  it ! — there  is  always 
another  in  ten  minutes?  Which  is  one's  train?  The  one  you 
ride  in^  says  Destiny.  The  one  you  find  in  me,  says  Bradshaw. 
Each  speaks  with  the  voice  of  mere  Officialism.  And,  when  the 
intervals  are  so  short  and  the  trains  so  many,  even  the  subtlest 
of  station  masters  cannot  tell  you  whether  the  one  that  is  coming 
is  this  one,  or  the  last  one,  or  the  next  one. 

Fred's  visit  to  his  mother  this  afternoon  belonged  to  a  class 
of  visit  that  he  had  invented  as  an  exponent  of  filial  duty,  to 
serve  its  turn  until  Nancy  should  take  her  departure  from 
Maida  Vale.  He  minimised  his  chances  of  being  brought  into 
contact  with  that  young  woman — a  contingency  he  shrank  from 
— by  being  unable,  owing  to  an  important  appointment  in  town, 
to  get  over  to  lunch ;  and  compelled,  by  an  old  promise  to  dine 
with  a  friend,  to  go  away  early.  But  it  was  not  in  him  to  let 
forty-eight  hours  pass  without  seeing  his  mother,  and  indeed 
seldom  did  so  even  in  ordinary  times.  At  this  period  it  was  a 
consolation  to  him  that  the  very  obstacle  which  barred  his  free 
ingress  and  egress  supplied  his  mother  with  a  society  that  ap- 
peared to  compensate  her  for  the  loss  of  his  own.  So  he  chose 
his  times  for  visits  as  suited  him  best,  merely  avoiding  risks 
of  coming  across  Miss  Nancy. 

Of  course  he  was  not  afraid  of  being  pitchforked  into  her 
apartment,  d  conire  ccciir.  But  he  never  knew,  when  he  fished 
for  his  latchkey  outside  the  street  door,  that  he  should  not  meet 
her  in  the  passage,  reinstated  and  ready  for  tlie  bicycle ;  even  for 
its  pump,  if  called  on. 

There  was  nobody  in  the  street  when  Fred  went  out  at  the 
garden  gate,  this  time.  That  is  to  say,  God-knows-who  was 
walking  to  and  fro  as  usual,  or  riding,  as  might  be;  but  the 
young  lady  whose  exit  had  preceded  him — as  he  judged  by  a 
door-slam,  ascribed  to  her  by  his  mother — was  not  visible.  He 
had  then  been  accurate  in  his  calculation  of  what  time  would  be 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  273 

needed  for  a  clear  oflfing  before  he  left  port.  He  had  had  a  sub- 
wish  to  be  inaccurate.  But  it  had  not  been  sufficiently  marked 
to  forbid  his  being  glad  the  contrary  was  the  case.  He  was 
therefore  at  liberty  not  to  be  sorry  that  this  antecedent  young 
lady  was  well  on  her  way  to  St.  John's  Wood  Road  station  before 
he  left  the  house.  Perhaps  she  wasn't  going  there.  That  would 
leave  hirn  free  to  walk  as  quick  as  he  liked.  He  walked  as  quick 
as  he  liked. 

He  reached  the  station  without  seeing  anybod}^  and  felt, 
officially,  glad.  He  would  have  felt  officially  sorry  if  he  had 
chanced  upon  Lucy  Hinchliffe  going  the  same  way  as  himself. 
He  had  considered  it  his  duty  to  decide  that  it  would  be  embar- 
rassing to  meet  her  just  at  present.  But  she  would  have  had 
her  usual  effect  upon  him,  for  all  that. 

Perhaps  the  story  is  rash,  with  its  limited  powers  of  descrip- 
tion, in  trying  to  describe  such  a  curious  and  contradictory  mix- 
ture of  impulses  as  Fred's  at  this  moment.  But  what  can  a  poor 
story  do,  with  so  queer  a  contrivance  as  the  human  soul  to  deal 
with?  If  only  that  mystery  would  always  be  clear  and  intelli- 
gible, how  much  easier  its  chronicle  would  be  to  write ! 

Fred's  preoccupations  prevented  his  noticing  that  the  price  of 
his  ticket  was  greater  than  usual.  It  dawned  on  him  later,  after 
it  had  been  perforated  past  recall.  Not  that  he  would  have 
taken  the  trouble  to  change  a  first-class  ticket  taken  by  mistake. 
But  it  made  him  resolve  that  he  would  have  his  money's  worth 
out  of  the  company ;  and  it  was  probably  his  looking  for  a  first- 
class  carriage,  and  not  seeing  one,  that  prevented  his  jumping 
into  the  train  that  was  just  leaving  the  station  when  he  reached 
the  platform.  "  Another  in  ten  minutes!  "  said  the  genius  loci, 
to  console  him. 

He  did  not  the  least  know  whether  it  was  relief  or  disappoint- 
ment that  he  felt  at  not  having  overtaken  Lucy  Hinchliffe.  He 
suspected  himself  now  of  having  really  schemed  to  that  end,  that 
looked  like  disappointment.  But  he  received  the  idea  very  easily 
that  she  had  taken  a  cab  home,  or  gone  another  way  altogether ; 
that  looked  like  relief.  Anyhow,  she  had  vanished  from  his 
immediate  possibilities. 

He  walked  about  the  platform  thinking— thinking.  Not 
about  Cintra;  she  had  also  vanished.  He  was  sometimes  sur- 
prised at  himself  that  it  should  be  so,  that  he  should  not  feel 
more  chagrin  at  his  position.  But  whenever  memories  of  the 
earlier  days  of  his  engagement  crossed  his  mind,  with  their  in- 
evitable suggestion  of  a  tempo  felice,  it  took  refuge  in  the  reflec- 


274  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

tion  that  that  happy  time  had  not  been  without  its  drawbacks; 
and  that,  with  it,  they  had  disappeared.  At  least  he  had  got  his 
release  from  the  anticipation  of  that  extremely  British  family  at 
Gipsy  Hill;  that,  but  for  this  denouement,  would  have  been  his 
for  good  and  all.  He  found  that  the  one  epoch  he  really  re- 
gretted was  that  of  the  first  intoxication  of  reciprocated  love, 
gradually  settling  down  to  a  chronic  condition  of  desire  to 
insulate  its  object  from  her  surroundings,  and  have  her  all  to 
himself.  That  end  would  have  been  attained — but !  There 
were  so  many  buts.  Had  she  been  prepared  to  give  her  family 
up?  Had  he  been  prepared  to  marry  it?  He  replied  to  both 
questions  in  the  negative,  with  a  super-emphasis  to  the  latter 
when  he  thought  of  that  stepmother. 

So  he  found  it  easy  to  think  of  Cintra  as  little  as  possible, 
but  he  took  care  to  do  it  because  that  course  was  wise  and  showed 
fortitude.  Do  not  let  it  be  supposed  that  the  story  is  laughing 
at  Fred  for  his  precautions  against  himself.  They  were  merely 
the  form  conscientiousness  took  in  a  mind  somewhat  over-prone 
to  self-examination. 

It  was  active  also  when  he  found  that  for  forty-eight  hours 
he  had  scarcely  given  a  thought  to  what  was  after  all  of  more 
importance  than  the  failure  of  one  trothplight — namely,  the 
unsolved  problem  of  his  uncle's  disappearance.  Was  this  owing 
to  a  growing  acquiescence  in  what  was  inevitable?  And  had  it 
grown  to' seem  more  inevitable  since  Flinders's  Mill  the  other 
night?  Had  the  fact  that  Flinders's  mill-pool  yielded  when 
dredged  a  resuscitable  corpse  familiarised  his  mind  with  ideas 
of  other  mill-ponds  concealing  life  extinct?  It  seemed  not 
impossible. 

A  dreadful  idea  that  had  disquieted  him  more  than  once  came 
back  on  the  heels  of  this  thought.  If,  long  after  every  search 
had  proved  a  forlorn  hope,  and  everyone  had  been  convinced 
that  his  non-return  meant  death,  the  missing  man  should  sud- 
denly turn  up — would  he  be  welcomed?  Not  necessarily.  .  .  . 
Well — of  course  he  would,  in  a  sense !  But  might  he  not  see, 
behind  the  curtain  of  a  glad  surprise  as  far  as  the  thought  in 
some  minds : — "  Must  we  hark  back  through  all  those  obsequies 
and  windings-up  we  hated,  and  be  prepared  to  take  up  life  at  the 
sundering  of  our  ways,  and  perchance  after  all  be  prepared  to 
have  the  same  thing  over  again,  a  day's  march  ahead  or  so  ?  " 
He  was  trying  to  picture  to  himself  a  reappearance  of  the  old 
familiar  figure  of  his  uncle,  after  he  and  all  about  him  had  long 
tliought  of  him  as  dead — for  that  time  must  come  one  day,  how- 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  275 

ever  much  one  shrank  from  acknowledging  it — and  wondering 
what  would  he  feel  himself  in  such  a  case,  when  the  sound  of 
his  train  in  the  tunnel  stopped  his  imaginings,  and  revived  his 
interest  in  his  receipt  of  full  value  for  that  ticket. 

The  porter  on  the  platform  seemed  as  interested  as  himself. 
"  First-class  forward,"  said  he,  spontaneously,  as  Fred  looked 
up  and  down  the  thirds,  which  were  very  empty,  and  really 
acceptable  enough  for  a  journey  from  station  to  station.  But 
the  ticket  held  Fred  spellbound.  To  be  even  with  the  company 
he  actually  ran  along  the  jDlatform.  The  guard  shouted  to  him 
to  get  in  there — look  alive !  He  looked  alive,  and  found  himself 
in  a  carriage  with  one  other  occupant. 

"When  one  is  starting  on  a  journey  and  there  is  loads  of  time 
— this  phrase  is  familiar  to  the  lax  of  speech — one  examines  the 
persons  already  in  the  carriage  as  though  it  was  to  be  matrimony, 
if  ladies;  and  a  fight,  if  males.  They  in  return  glare  upon  you 
with  an  unspeakable  bitterness ;  but,  if  you  show  resolution, 
relent,  and  admit  that  that  is  really  an  empty  seat.  On  the 
other  hand,  when  you  join  the  train  in  a  hurry,  you  postpone 
assessment  of  your  companions,  at  least  until  you  know  which 
side  up  you  are,  which  sometimes  you  don't. 

Fred  didn't  look  at  the  other  occupant  at  all  till  after  he  had 
looked  at  his  watch.  When  he  did  so,  he  thought  his  wits  had 
surely  forsaken  him.  Otherwise,  he  was  face  to  face  with  the 
Impossible,  with  a  full  knowledge  of  how  seldom  it  comes  to 
pass. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

The  Impossible  in  this  case  was  not  perhaps  what  is  generally 
understood  by  those  who  will  have  it  that  everything  is  possible 
80  long  as  one  can  tell  the  truth  about  it  without  one's  words 
contradicting  themselves.  There  is  no  contradiction  in  terms  in 
saying  that  one  can  be  in  any  two  places  within  a  quarter  of  an 
hour;  but  to  say  that  this  is  possible,  at  one  and  the  same 
instant,  is  to  call  in  question  the  meaning  of  the  verb  he.  A 
man  could  be  in  Melbourne  and  London  within  that  period  if 
his  ship  went  quick  enough,  but  no  ship  could  go  quick  enough 
for  him  to  be  in  both  towns  at  once.  It  would  take  all  the  edge 
off  his  unity,  and  compromise  his  entity  past  reinstatement. 
You  may  not  asrree,  and  the  Logician  may  not  agree;  but  that 
is  the  story's  view.  It  will  leave  you  and  the  Logician  to  settle 
the  point,  and  get  on  with  itself.  Perhaps  if  it  says  that  the 
Physically  Impossible  was  what  seemed  to  Fred  to  have  gone 
and  come  to  pass,  all  parties  will  be  satisfied. 

If  it  uses  words  that  length,  surely  much  fr.Uacy  may  be 
forgiven  it.  Its  position  is  that  of  the  Magdalen,  with  some 
details  varied. 

Anyhow,  there  in  the  diagonally  opposite  corner  of  that  first- 
class  carriage,  in  defiance  of  everything  conceivable  from  the 
data  at  his  command,  sat  a  young  lady,  who — if  such  a  thing 
had  not  been  physically  impossible — would  certainly  have  been 
Lucy  Hinchlift'e.  But  it  ivas  Lucy  Hinchliffe,  beyond  a  shadow 
of  doubt.  Her  eyes  could  be  no  one  else's.  Moreover,  they  were 
luminous  with  greeting  to  Fred,  and  her  smile  was  luminous  too. 
Some  kind  of  impossilDility  had  happened.  Never  mind  that! — 
its  results  were  too  good  to  cavil  at. 

"  But  I  thought  you  were  at  my  mother's,"  said  Fred,  as  soon 
as  surprise  permitted  speech.  For  not  only  was  he  face  to  face 
with  the  Impossible,  but  a  well-defined  electric  shock  had  passed 
up  his  arm.  Evidently  lemon-coloured  kid  gloves  were  con- 
ductors of  electricity. 

"  So  I  was.  Why  not  ? "  Simple  English  monosyllables 
surely !  But  spoken  in  such  a  voice,  they  might  have  been 
Italian,  or  Romaic,  or  the  language  in  which  nightingales  say 

276 


OT7 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  z// 

the  same  thing  to  each  other  all  nicrht  ahout  the  stars  in  June. 

"  Why  ?     Because  you've  come  the  wrong  way." 

"Have  I?  Why?  That's  like  Alice  In  The  Looking-Glass, 
f,  when  the  guard  said  she  was  going  the  wrong  way.  But  then, 
;     that  was  in  the  looking-glass." 

''  So  it  was.  Of  course!  Don't  think  I  ever  noticed  it!  But 
how  did  you  manage  it,  coming  from  my  mother's.  .  .  .  Oh, 
I  think  I  see.  You  walked  to  the  other  station — Marlborough 
Road  ?  •' 

"  No — guess  again !  " 

"  Give  it  up  !  " 

'''  Well — it's  very  simple.  I  got  on  the  wrong  platform,  and 
got  in  the  wrong  train  before  I  knew  where  I  was.  I  got  out 
and  crossed  to  the  other  side  at  Swiss  Cottage — because  it 
took  two  stations  to  convince  me — and  was  just  in  time  to  catch 
this  train.     I'm  so  glad." 

How  olad  Fred  would  have  been  that  she  was  elad — if 
only  .  .  .  !  But  the  reservation  was  absolutely  proliibitive.  It 
made  him  shudder,  almost,  to  think  of  his  friend's  unconscious- 
ness of  this.  ...  Of  this  what?  What  was  it  his  friend  was 
to  remain  unconscious  of  ?     Never  mind ! 

But  the  young  lady's  gladness  was  a  formulated  and  per- 
missible one.  She  had  wanted  so  much  to  get  half  an  hour's 
chat  with  Mr.  Carteret;  therefore  she  rejoiced  that  she  was  in 
this  train,  not  the  next.  Her  exclamation  had  been  opportunist, 
not  personal.  Fred  felt  relief,  as  well  as  chagrin,  at  this.  He 
denied  the  latter,  and  made  a  merit  of  the  former.  He  was 
bound  in  honour  to  Charley  to  be  relieved  at  the  dissipation  of 
any  suspicion  that  his  friend's  Lucy  could  derive  satisfaction 
from  any  society  but  his.     He  was  merely  discharging  a  duty. 

But — oh  dear! — if  was  impossible  to  talk  in  this  tunnel.  We 
must  wait  till  we  get  out  at  Baker  Street.  Here  was  Baker 
Street.     Now  we  could  hear  ourself  speak. 

Fred  made  a  practical  suggestion.  He  had  intended  to  go  to 
King's  Cross — as  witness  his  ticket — and  to  cab  therefrom  to 
the  Temple.  But  he  could  just  as  easily  cab  from  here.  He 
stuttered  a  little  over  suggesting  that  Devonshire  Place — where 
he  had  been  to  dinner,  you  remember? — was  on  the  way, 
and  .  .  .  But  perhaps  Miss  Hinchliffe  wouldn't  like  a  han- 
som  .    .    .  ? 

On  the  contrary,  Miss  Hinchliffe  was  wedded  to  hansoms. 
Had  she  her  choice,  she  would  pass  her"  life  in  hansoms.  But 
they  had  a  fault — they  were  too  quick.     She  wanted  to  talk  to 


278  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

Mr.  Carteret  quietly;  not  to  be  hurried.  Therefore,  let  them 
walk  at  their  leisure  to  Devonshire  Place.  Then  if  Mr.  Carteret 
could  not  be  persuaded  to  come  in,  the  butler  would  call  a  cab 
for  him  in  a  moment.     He  could  only  lose  a  very  few  minutes. 

"  You  know  what  I  want  to  speak  to  you  about  ? "  said  the 
young  lady,  timidly,  as  they  left  the  station. 

"  I  can  guess.  Please,  dear  Miss  Hinchliffe,  don't  stand  on 
ceremony.  Talk  to  me  as  plainly  as  you  like  about — my  engage- 
ment to  Miss  Fraser.  It  is  at  an  end,  as  you  know.  .  .  .  That 
is  what  you  were  referring  to,  isn't  it  ?  " 

"What  else  could  it  be?" 

"  Nothing  at  all.  But  there  is  nothing  to  be  said.  It  is 
over  and  done  with." 

"  Is  it  quite — quite  certain?     Is  there  no  chance?  " 

"  Absolutelv  none  whatever.  IS^either  on  my  side  nor  hers.  I 
see  that  is  what  you  were  thinking." 

She  did  not  contradict  him,  but  said  only : — "  You  are  not 
angry  with  Miss  Fraser  ?  " 

"Angry  with  her?  Why  should  I  be?  I  am  angry  with  my- 
self, I  grant  you.     But  not  with  Cintra." 

"  There  is  a  thing  I  cannot  understand.  .  .  .  But  you  will 
think  me  so  odd  !  " 

"  I  don't  think  I  shall.  I  may  think  you  more  frank  and 
honest  than  other  women,  but  not  ,  .  .  However,  perhaps  that 
is  odd." 

"  Odd  to  be  frank  and  honest?  Then  I  should  like  to  be  odd. 
But  let  me  tell  you  ..." 

"  Go  on." 

"  What  I  mean  that  I  cannot  understand.  When  two  persons 
— a  man  and  a  girl,  you  know — once  speak  to  one  another  of 
affection  ...  of  love  ..."  Her  colour  heightened  per- 
ceptibly in  the  evening  light,  as  she  paused  in  her  walk  for  a 
moment  and  turned  her  destructive  eyes  upon  her  com- 
panion. 

"  You  mean  that  you  cannot  understand  how  either  of  them 
can  ever  shy  off  ?  " 

"  Ye-es.  I  think  that  is  what  I  mean.  Only  you  put  it  more 
— more  incisively — than  I  should  have  done.     How  can  they  ?  " 

"  They  do,  every  day.  Isn't  it  better  that  they  should,  when 
they  find  out  what  we  have  found  out?  Cintra  and  myself,  I 
mean."     He  too  was  flushed,  and  candid. 

"  What  is  that?     What  have  you  found  out?  " 

"  Our  mistake.     It  was  a  mistake  all  along.     It  was  a  mistake 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  279 

which  might  easily  have  ended  in  unhappiness  for  both,  and  I 
shall  always  be  thankful  for  the  accident  which — which  opened 
our  eyes."  Something  seemed  to  come  in  the  way  of  the  natural 
continuance  of  this  speech.  His  immediate  silence  did  not  seem 
a  reasonable  sequel. 

She  was  watching  him  too  closely  to  overlook  it.  "  You  are 
not  going  to  tell  me  what  it  was  ?  " — she  half  asked,  after  a 
moment's  waiting.  Then  in  response  to  an  embarrassed  reluc- 
tance on  his  part : — "  Xo ! — no !  I  am  not  asking  to  be  told 
what  it  was.  I  have  no  right  to  know.  .  .  .  No — stop — you 
mustn't  tell  me !  I  have  no  right  to  know."  Whereupon  Fred, 
who  was  indeed  at  some  loss  to  think  what  he  could  ascribe  the 
collapse  of  his  engagement  to,  speaking  as  he  did  to  the  uncon- 
scious cause  of  it,  was  glad  to  renounce  further  explanation.  So 
he  said,  somewhat  weakly : — "  Well,  perhaps  you're  right,"  and 
surrendered  the  point. 

Very  likely  you — you  who  read  this — have  noticed  how  slowly 
conversation  develops  between  companions  who  walk  together  in 
a  crowded  street.  The  foregoing  fragment  of  chat,  which  would- 
scarcely  have  filled  out  three  minutes  of  stage-time — if  spoken 
trippingly  on  the  tongue — had  lasted  these  two  from  Baker 
Street  to  Devonshire  Place :  and,  so  far,  the  young  lady  had 
rather  elicited  conversation  from  the  gentleman  than  contributed 
to  its  substance  herself.  It  seemed  natural  that  she  should 
exclaim  at  this  point : — "  Oh  dear !— here  we  are  close  at  home, 
and  I  haven't  said  what  I  wanted  to  say."  Fred  felt  that  this 
could  be  remedied  by  finishing  the  interview  indoors,  but  he 
preferred  what  Miss  Hinchliffe  suggested,  that  they  should  walk 
on  a  short  distance  to  accommodate  matters. 

He  kept  silence  for  a  hundred  yards,  waiting  for  her  to  use 
the  opportunity,  and  then  said,  lubricatively,  "  Yes — you  were 
going  to   .    .    .,"  and  stopped. 

"  To  try  and  make  you  change  your  mind — somehow !  But  I 
don't  know  what  to  say,  that's  the  truth.  And  it  wouldn't  be  of 
any  use.    .    .    .    Now,  would  it  ?  " 

A  sort  of  delirium  clouded  Fred's  mind.  It  forcibly  presented 
to  him,  as  something  on  no  account  to  be  spoken,  an  epitome  of 
his  position.  Witat  he  had  to  keep  his  tongue  from  saying 
was : — "  This,  and  this  only,  is  what  I  cannot  do  at  your  bidding. 
Set  me  to  any  other  task  and  I  will  do  it, — oh,  how  willingly! 
But  wed  another  woman !  Not  I !  I  can  and  will  choke  back 
this  growing  turmoil  of  passion,  for  I  hold  my  friendship  sacred 
for  your  husband  that  is  to  be,  but  the  girl  who  had  sole  keeping 


280  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

of  my  heart  until  1  saw  you  has  become  a  mere  shadow  in  my 
memory." 

He  struggled  hard  to  speak  in  a  matter-of-fact,  matter-of- 
course,  everyday,  commonplace  way — and  failed.  Of  course  he 
failed.  It  is  a  thing  no  man  has  ever  yet  done  on  purpose.  He 
answered  her  "  Xow  would  it  ?  "  with  "  Not  very  much,  cer- 
tainly !  "  The  words  were  well  chosen,  the  manner  in  fault. 
He  was  looking  away  from  her  as  she  glanced  shrewdly  at  him. 
He  ought  to  have  met  her  eyes.  He  was  adding  a  supplementary 
half-cough  behind  his  hand,  needlessly.  He  ought  to  have  been 
content  to  leave  his  words  ungarnished. 

Her  observation  of  his  manner  apparently  encouraged  her  to 
say : — "  I  suppose  it  would  be  of  no  use  for  me  to  call  on  her 
and   .    .    .   and  represent  to  her       .    . " 

The  idea  of  such  an  interview  scared  Fred.  He  could  not 
trust  Heaven  to  avert  it  in  response  to  the  unexpressed  prayer 
of  a  private  individual.  He  must  take  action  to  stop  it.  "  ily 
dear  Miss  Hinchliffe,"  said  he,  "  if  you  were  to  carry  a  petition 
from  me  to  Miss  Fraser  to  reconsider  her  decision  for  both  our 
sakes  ..."  He  stumbled  and  hesitated.  Was  he  not  man- 
aging to  say  the  exact  opposite  of  what  he  wished? 

Probably.  Because  she  brightened  and  said : — "  Oh,  do  let 
me !     That  is  what  I  really  should  enjoy  doing." 

Fred  hastened  to  correct  the  false  impression.  That  he  must 
do  at  any  cost.  "  Excuse  me — I  was  going  on,"  said  he.  "  I 
was  going  to  say  that  I  have  no  doubt  you  would  be  as  likely 
to  influence  her  as  myself.  But — to  put  it  plainly — I  cannct 
send  that  petition." 

"  Oh,  how  you  have  disappointed  me !  "  said  Miss  Hinchliffe. 

"  I  am  so  very  sorry.  But  what  would  you  have?  Now  that 
we  have  parted,  by  complete  consent — for  we  are  unanimous — 
should  I  be  consulting  her  interest,  or  my  own,  in  trying  to 
renew  relations  which  we  both  regard  as  completely  at  an  end  ?  " 

Now,  the  story  has  a  conviction  that  had  this  young  lady  really 
had  an  honest  wish  to  relight  the  extinct  fires  of  love  for  his 
former  idol  on  this  young  man's  altar  of  sacrifice,  she  would 
have  availed  herself  of  old  materials  for  doing  so.  She  would 
have  dwelt  entirely  on  the  cruel  position  of  the  deserted  damsel, 
would  have  pooh-poohed  the  idea  that  she  could  have  been  in 
earnest  in  her  renunciation  of  her  lover ;  would  have  "  pointed 
out"  the  share  that  pride  and  dignity — both  false,  perhaps — 
might  have  had  in  influencing  her  action.  She  would  have  made 
insidious  suggestions  based  on  the  well-known  fact  that  the  least 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  281 

suspicion  of  partiality  on  the  part  of  her  for  him,  or  him  for 
her,  will  ignite  a  spark  of  counter-partiality  in  each,  t'other  way 
round.  But  a  brace  of  jealousies  will  play  the  same  game  back- 
wards, and  either  will  hark  back  and  become  love  again  that 
suspects  its  fellow  of  being  love  in  disguise.  Manipulation  of 
this  fact  was  possible. 

Miss  Lucy  might  also  quite  easily  have  "  pointed  out  "  that  it 
would  be  doing  greater  justice  to  his  own  noble  nature  to  consult 
Cintra's  interests  more  than  his  own,  and  to  credit  her  with  a 
sorrow  at  heart  for  the  success  of  her  hasty  actions.  Instead  of 
that  she  appeared  to  ascribe  to  her  a  stony  indifference,  whicli 
however  would  probably  yield  to  renewed  efforts  on  Fred's  part, 
which  she  exhorted  him  to  make  on  his  own  behalf.  Was  ohe 
aware,  or  not,  that  the  young  man's  soul  had  begun  to  discover 
that  Cintra  v/as  not  an  absolute  necessity  to  it?  The  story, 
keeping  in  view  some  remarks  she  made  about  Cintra  after  their 
introduction,  inclines  to  the  belief  that  she  was.  She  was  quite 
safe  in  exhorting  him  to  try  again,  at  any  rate;  and  to  do  so 
was  to  maintain  the  purity  of  her  altruism.  But  she  didn't  want 
Cintra  in  her  house,  or  next  door.     Did  she  want  Fred  ? 

Her  exhortations  to  him  to  reinstate  himself  with  Cintra 
lasted  round  two  sides  of  Regent's  Park  Square.  Fred  was 
basking  all  that  while  in  the  sun  of  a  dangerous  happiness,  with 
a  painful  consciousness  always  that  his  enjoyment  of  the  warmth 
of  its  rays  was  almost  criminal.  Men  v/lio  have  been  saved  from 
the  jaws  of  a  lion  have  told  of  a  strange  anassthesia  that  enwraps 
them,  in  the  very  throes  of  a  terrible  death ;  how  they  have  looked 
this  death  in  the  face  and  felt  no  fear.  Fred  knew  that  his 
growing  passion  for  this  girl  meant  to  show  him  no  mercy,  even 
as  that  lion  meant  none  to  his  victim.  It  would  devour  him — 
but  what  of  that?  The  seductive  moment  was  irresistible,  and 
he  made  no  stand  against  its  enchantment.  And  all  the  while 
he  was  clinging  to  his  belief  in  her  utter  unconsciousness  of  his 
feelings,  as  a  safeguard — his  only  safeguard — against  himself. 
If  that  unconsciousness  were  flawed  in  the  least,  even  though 
the  complete  indifference  to  himself  that  he  imputed  to  her  were 
maintained  intact,  would  it  not  undermine  and  destroy  his  rela- 
tions with  his  friend?  He  fairly  winced  at  the  hint  of  some 
passing  imp  that  she  too  might  .  .  .  But  no! — rather  a  breach 
of  the  canon  against  self-slaughter  than  that!  A  traitor  to  his 
old  friend — never ! 

He  did  not  care  very  much  what  she  was  talking  about.  His 
interest  in  Cintra  had  fallen  to  zero  by  now.     She  was  a  thing 


282  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

of  the  past;  a  mistake  he  had  made  once,  whom  it  was  an  easy 
duty  to  forget.  This  girl  was  a  reality.  Or  rather,  she  was 
reality  itself.  Everything  was  a  mist,  beyond  the  two  eyes  that 
flashed  their  earnestness — real  or  assumed — ujoon  him  in  the 
blaze  of  that  May  sunset,  and  the  lips  that  spoke  with  a  voice 
that  made  the  roar  of  the  London  streets  a  meaningless  murmur, 
a  stupid  continuity  he  might  be  alive  to  again,  or  not,  when 
that  voice  ceased  speaking.  What  was  that  it  spoke  of?  Cintra ! 
What  was  Cintra  now  ? 

''  I  see  that  it  is  no  use  my  talking  to  you,  Mr.  Carteret. 
I  shall  never  persuade  vou  into  the  belief  that  you  are  mis- 
taken.   ..." 

"  We  were  mistaken,  once.    Or — how  do  you  mean  mistaken?  " 

''  In  allowing  yourself  to  be  so  easily  discouraged." 

Fred  collected  words  for  explicit  speech.  "  The  way  you  put 
it  does  not  give  the  facts  correctly.  Pardon  me,  dear  Miss 
Hinchliffe,  if  I  seem  to — to  contradict  you  flatly.  I  must  do  it, 
in  the  interests  of  truth    ..." 

"  Which  are  always  so  valuable.     Go  on !  " 

"  The  word  discouragement  conveys  a  false  impression.  It 
does  not  apply  to  the  position.  I  am  ashamed  to  confess  it, 
but  it  is  true  for  all  that,  that  ..."  It  stuck  in  his  throat, 
nevertheless. 

"  You  are  never  going  to  say  that  you  have  ceased  to  care 
for  her  ?  " 

"  Well — I  was.  At  least,  it  amounts  to  that.  ...  I  see 
what  you  are  going  to  say,  but — allow  me !  If  I  had  never 
known — as  I  most  certainly  do — that  her  own  sentiments 
towards  me  had  changed,  it  would  have  been  exactly  the  same. 
I  should  have  ceased  to  care  for  Cintra  Fraser." 

"  Then  there  was  a  quarrel !  " 

"  There  was  no  quarrel !  " 

"  Then  there  was  some  reason.  Love  never  changed  to  Indif- 
ference yet  without  a  reason.  Come,  Mr.  Carteret,  you  have 
told  me  so  much  that  if  you  keep  anything  back  now,  you  will 
only  set  me  guessing — and  I  shall  guess  wrong !  Shall  I  help 
you?  There  was  a  reason,  and  a  very  distinct  reason.  And 
that  reason  was — another  woman !    .    .    .    I  see  I'm  right." 

For  Fred  was  looking  very  like  a  handsome  thief,  detected. 
She  did  not  stop  short,  but  continued : — "  And  Miss  Fraser 
knows,  and  knows  who  she  is." 

There  Avas  a  kind  of  desperation  in  Fred's  voice  as  he 
answered: — "  That  is  so.     But  not  a  living  soul  else  knows  it — 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  283 

or  ever  will.  Least  of  all  the  girl  herself.  ...  I  beg  and  pray 
of  you  most  earnestly^  dear  Miss  Hinchliffe,  that  you  will  ask  me 
no  further  questions  about  this.  And — please ! — say  nothing  to 
Charley  about  it.  I  shall  tell  him  all  I  have  told  you,  perhaps 
more." 

How  much  Miss  Hinchliffe  really  knew,  or  suspected,  who 
shall  say?  She  certainly  knew  all  Fred  had  told  her,  and  that 
may  have  been  as  much  as  she  sought  to  know.  She  acquiesced 
readily  in  Fred's  wish  that  she  should  ask  no  further  questions, 
saying : — "  Very  well,  then !  I  won't  bother  you  any  more,  since 
it's  no  use.  But  it's  a  terrible  disappointment  to  me  and  to 
Charley  that  we  are  not  to  live  in  our  air-castle  at  The  Cedars. 
The  next  news  will  tell  us  that  they  have  sold  the  place  to 
someone  else.  Exactly  the  sort  of  thing  that  always  hapiDcns. 
And  we  shall  be  doomed  to  some  horrible  house  in  a  row,  near 
Hyde  Park,  I  suppose.  One  thing  I've  quite  settled,  that  we 
won't  go  and  live  with  mamma  as  she  wants  us  to  do.  If  there 
is  one  place  I  hate  more  than  another  it  is  \Yimpole  Street. 
Besides,  there  are  other  objections." 

They  turned  and  walked  back  the  way  they  had  come,  chatting 
impersonally;  and  Fred  recovered  his  equanimity.  So  far,  that 
is  to  say,  as  a  man  may  be  said  to  have  an  even  mind  who  is, 
painfully  as  well  as  pleasurably,  conscious  of  enslavement. 
Every  word,  every  look,  every  smile  was  a  new  rivet  in  the 
manacles  that  were — so  far  as  he  could  see — to  bind  him  for  all 
time.  And  purposelessly  too,  so  far  as  he  could  assign  a  reason 
to  an  unprovoked  decree  of  a  capricious  Fate.  Could  he  break 
himself  in,  to  bear  the  position  it  created,  or  would  he  have  to 
run  away  from  his  old  friend,  to  escape  from  his  wife?  The 
position  would  be  maddening;  it  was  so  now,  and  would  grow 
worse  with  time.  His  only  escape  would  be  to  run  away  from 
himself  and — there  was  the  sting  of  it — from  his  old  friend. 
How  would  he  account  for  his  action  to  Charley? 

A  crazy  thought  fluttered  in  his  distempered  brain,  as  she 
chatted  on  equably  about  the  advantage  to  young  coupTes  of 
keeping  their  relations  out  of  their  housekeeping;  especially 
their  mothers,  however  dear.  Fred's  distraction  was  prompting 
him  to  speculate  as  to  whether  a  possible  release  from  his 
bondage  might  not  be  found  in  a  bold  declaration  of  his  passion, 
always  in  reliance  on  this  girl's  icy  indifference  to  himself,  her 
immutable  fidelity  to  his  friend ! 

But  could  that  little  drama  be  carried  through  without  Charley 
coming  to  the  knowledge  of  it?     The  lady  in  Mrs.  Browning's 


284  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

poem  presumably  never  told  her  Walter  anything  about  that 
little  stramash  which  came  of  the  gentleman's  diseased  impulse 
to  confess  the  truth  at  any  cost.  He  ought  to  have  had  urgent 
business,  calling  him  to  London,  or  Paris,  or  Tokio.  Anywhere 
somewhere  else !  Fred  may  have  had  sub-misgivings  that  he 
could  not  rely  on  so  stoical  an  indifference  in  the  present  case 
as  the  lady's.  Granting  that  Miss  Hinchliffe  appreciated 
Charley  as  much  as  she  did  her  Walter — why,  his  course  would 
be  clear  enough !  Open  his  heart  out,  listen  patiently  to  a 
psycho-ethical  analysis  of  the  position,  and  promise  not  to  do  so 
any  more.  But,  to  do  full  justice  to  this  scenario,  ought  not  the 
leading  lady  to  be  a  cold-blooded  prig?  He  dismissed  the  crazy 
thought. 

The  silence  which  ended  their  half-hour's  chat  was  almost 
more  trying  to  Fred  than  its  subject-matter  had  been.  He  was 
half  in  favour  of  feeling  relieved  when  she  ended  it  by  turning 
to  him  on  the  steps  of  her  mother's  house  and  saying,  with  a 
lemon-coloured  hand  stretched  out  for  farewell : — "  Good-bye 
then,  as  it's  no  use.  But  you  will  think  it  over  again  though 
— won't  you?     Say  you  will." 

A  little  indulgence  that  could  do  no  harm,  surely,  to  say  in 
a  man-of-the-worldly  kind  of  way : — "  I  will  do  any  mortal 
thing,  ]\riss  Hinchlift'e,  to  give  you  pleasure.  But  it  won't  be 
any  good." 

She  said  again,  with  those  eyes  fixed  dreamily  upon  him : — 
"  Good-bye  then — as  it's  no  use." 

'•  Goocl-bye,  Miss  Hinchliffe !  "  He  had  just  turned  away 
when  her  voice  followed  him,  calling  him  by  name.  "  Yes,  Miss 
Hinchlifl'e,  what?  "  said  he. 

"'  Oh,  it's  too  sillv  of  me  to  drag  vou  back.  Please  never 
mind !  " 

"•  But  I  cZo  mind,     ^^^lat  was  it?  " 

"  x^lmost  an  absurd  thing.  But  you  have  just  called  me  it 
twice." 

"Called  you  what?" 

"  Called  me  '  Miss  Hinchlift'e.'  Do  you  know  what  I  shall  call 
you  next  time  I  see  Charley  ?  " 

"  No — yes  I  do,  though  I  Probably  '  Fred.'  Because  Charley 
always  insists  on  my  speaking  of  you  as  .  .  .  well ! — Lucy. 
When  we  are  talking  together  you  know,  no  one  else  there !  '* 

"  What  a  sense  of  delicacy !  Considering  my  feelings, 
quite !  "  She  laughed  a  silvery  laugh,  which  Fred  could  answer 
back.     She  continued : — "  I  can't  say  I've  been  as  good  a  girl 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  285 

as  you  have  a  boy.  I  cannot  swear  to  having  religiously  spoken 
of  you  as  '  Mr.  Carteret '  always — everywhere !  In  fact,  my 
impression  is  that  this  very  day  I  have  talked  of  you  as  '  Fred  ' 
to  that  nice  girl  at  your  mother's — whom  Charley  hates,  by  the 
way.   ..." 

"  Oh— Elbows  !  " 

"I  believe  that  is  the  horrible  name  you  have  thought  fit  to 
apply  to  her." 

"  It  was  Charley's  invention.     I  merely  accepted  it." 
.  "  You  should  have  resented  it." 

"  It's  only  a  sobriquet,  you  know.  It  doesn't  imply  any- 
thing." Fred  felt  quite  apologetic  about  this  designation,  for 
which  he  was  not  responsible.  His  mind  went  sadly  back  to  the 
occasion  of  its  first  appearance  as  a  nickname — the  dance  where 
the  two  young  men  had  met  the  two  sisters — and  their  utter 
unconsciousness  of  the  things  that  were  to  be.  He  remembered 
their  walking  homewards  at  an  unearthly  hour  in  the  morning, 
and  how  Charley  chaffed  him  about  the  very  pretty  girl  he  had 
stuck  so  close  to  all  the  evening,  whose  father  was  said  to  be 
the  Professor  Fraser.  And  how,  when  he  said  that  tlio  tall 
square  girl  was  her  sister,  Charley  said: — "What — Elbows?" 
And  he  said  was  that  her  name?  And  Charley  said: — "Don't 
suppose  it  is!  But  don't  you  think  it  suits  her?"  That  was 
the  genesis  of  that  name,  in  the  sweet  light  of  a  midsummer 
morning,  hours  before  the  Milk,  early  enough  in  fact  to  be 
nominally  last  night.  Nearly  two  years  since  now !  To  think 
of  all  that  had  happened  in  those  two  years !  Fred  felt  very 
old. 

Would  he  not  be  glad — the  thought  was  a  flash  in  the  mind's 
pan,  past  in  an  instant — that  he  should  awake  now,  as  from  a 
dream,  and  only  remember  those  beautiful  eyes  that  held  him  in 
thrall;  those  beautiful  lips  that  were  speaking  to  him,  the 
words  they  said,  that  seemed  so  much  and  were  so  little,  as 
the  mischievous  delusions  of  a  night?  But  how  far  back  would 
he  have  the  dream  to  go?  When  should  sleep  have  come  upon 
him?  Oh,  he  knew.  He  would  have  the  dream  begin  from  his 
first  sight  of  his  friend's  fiancee.  Or,  better  still,  from  the  hour 
of  his  uncle's  disappearance,  that  sombre  background  to  every 
thought  in  life.  How  he  would  rejoice  to  hear  that  draconie 
voice  again!  But,  for  the  girl  that  stood  there  before  him,  in 
the  dying  evening  glow,  was  it  in  hira  to  awaken  from  her 
presence,  and  not  wish  to  sleep  again? 

What  were  the  beautiful  lips  saying,  that  he  should  miss  tw« 

19 


286  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

words  of  it?  He  had  only  lost  some  just  condemnation  of  Nancy 
Fraser's  nickname — that  was  all.  Peterfield,  the  butler,  was 
holding  the  door  open  for  his  young  mistress  to  enter,  with  an 
appearance  on  his  face  of  respectful  indignation  at  being  kept 
waiting.  This  man  always  seemed,  Fred  thought,  to  have  just 
come  away  from  a  Cabinet  Council,  and  to  want  to  get  back, 

"  Now  remember ! "  said  the  lips,  seriously,  not  jestingly. 
"  Next  time,  it  is  not  to  be  Miss  Hinchliffe.  Let  Charley  have 
his  way — he  likes  it  so.  .  .  .  Now — what  is  it  to  be,  next 
time?" 

"  Lucy.  I  suppose  I'm  not  bound  to  wait  till  next  time  ? 
Good-night,  Lucy !  You'll  see  Charley  before  I  shall — he's 
coming  this  evening,  isn't  he? — so  tell  him  how  docile  I  was." 

"  All  right !  I'll  do  you  justice.  Good-night  .  .  .  Fred !  " 
She  threw  him  his  name,  with  a  smile  that  went  far  to  stultify 
her  stipulation  that  it  was  for  Charley's  sake.  Was  she  aware, 
all  the  while,  that  this  trivial  familiarity  would  have  its  zest, 
for  a  victim? 


PART  II 


CHAPTER  XIX 

The  Cedars  was  not  rechristened  when  Mr.  Charles  .Snaith 
and  his  beautiful  young  wife  started  Housekeeping  there.  What 
did  it  matter  to  them  that  its  high  reputation  as  a  lunatic  asylum 
had  been  earned  for  it  under  that  name  a  hundred  years  ago. 
The  son  of  its  first  owner  had  died  an  old  man  fifteen  years 
since,  and  a  clause  in  the  lease  had  prohibited  its  use  otherwise 
than,  as  a  dwelling-house  by  any  tenant  after  that  said  first 
lessee's  death  and  that  of  the  son  whom  he  was  educating  to 
his  own  profession.  Its  great  size  and  the  cost  of  repairs  and 
modernisations  had  no  doubt  stood  in  the  way  of  the  sale  of 
the  remainder-lease  ever  since  it  came  on  the  market;  and  it 
was,  in  point  of  fact,  considered  very  surprising  that  it  should 
have  found  a  private  tenant  at  all. 

However,  there  on  the  lawn  were  the  two  noble  Cedars  of 
Lebanon  that  gave  it  its  name,  well  worth — so  said  Mrs.  Charles 
Snaith,  the  beauty,  to  her  many  visitors — at  least  half  the  two 
thousand  pounds  mamma  had  paid  for  the  twenty-two  years 
unexpired.  So  why  change  it?  Also,  owing  to  a  special  proviso 
in  the  contract  with  the  builder  for  repairs,  the  old  porch  of 
lichened  stone  remained  intact.  For  Mr.  Snaith  had  brouglit 
his  legal  acumen  to  bear  on  the  phrasing  of  this  contract,  to 
the  effect  that  should  the  builder  molest,  injure,  or  alter  in  the 
smallest  degree  one  jot  or  one  tittle  of  sundry  features  of  the 
building  therein  specified,  he  should  reinstate  same,  antiquity 
and  all.  within  three  months.  It  was  unfortunate  that  he  was 
never  called  on  to  fulfil  this  condition.  If  it  were  only  known 
how  to  restore  the  antiquity  of  an  ancient  building,  how  happy 
Archaeology  would  be ! 

Charley  Snaith  had  suffered  many  questionings  of  his  inner 
conscience  as  to  whether  he  ought  to  allow — still  less  induce — 
his  friend  Fred  Carteret  to  supervise  the  numerous  adjustments 
and  modifications  needed  to  bring  the  old  house  up  to  date.  It 
would  excruciate  the  soul  of  that  young  man,  to  the  extent 
perhaps  of  handicapping  his  omniscience,  to  be  brought  into 
daily  contact  with  comparisons  of  his  original  plans,  those  of 
the  contemplated  joint  tenancy,  and  the  ones  finally  adopted. 
Miss   Hinchlift'e  showed   true  delicacy  of   feeling,  and   shrank 

289 


290  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

from  reminding  Mr.  Carteret  of  the  painful  collapse  of  the 
original  castle-in-the-air.  She  was,  however,  keenly  alive  to  the 
fortitude  and  common  sense  which  her  husband's  friend  showed 
about  his  extinct  engagement.  "  He  is  so  right,"  she  said,  "  not 
to  allow  himself  to  be  influenced  by  nonsensical,  unreal  fancies. 
It  is  your  duty  and  mine,  Charles,  to  assist  him  against  himself. 
.  .  .  Dear  me — how  like  a  book  I  am  talking !  "  Neverthe- 
less, Charles  submitted,  there  was  something  to  be  said  for  the 
text  of  that  book.  His  conscience  was  at  rest,  keeping  in  view 
its  decision  that  it  was  his  duty  to  assist  Fred  against 
himself. 

Would  Fred  have  required  any  such  assistance — supposing 
that  he  really  did,  now — if  his  friend  had  been  wedded  with  less 
lustrous  eyes,  less  pearly  teeth,  a  less  bewitching  voice?  Well — 
how  much  less?     After  all,  that's  the  point. 

As  much  less,  suppose  we  say,  as  Miss  Skinner's,  Cintra's 
friend !  The  story  finds  that  this  hypothesis  throws  a  light  on 
the  situation.  For  had  it  been  a  credible  one,  Fred  surely  would 
not  only  have  needed  assistance,  but  compulsion,  to  induce  him 
to  near  the  house  at  all.  He  would  have  been  content  to  leave 
the  alterations  to  any  builder,  and  to  see  his  friend  every  day  at 
his  chambers;  for  Charles  did  not  end  his  connection  with  the 
diggings,  so  called.  As  it  was,  he  certainly  seemed  to  require 
no  assistance  against  himself  towards  compliance  with  his 
friend's  wish  that  he  should  make  the  house  his  own.  He  might 
have  welcomed  any  help  in  the  contrary  direction  had  he  become 
alive  to  the  danger  of  his  position.  He  may  have  done  so  by 
fits  and  starts.  But  misgivings  about  the  safety  of  laisser-faire 
never  lasted  long  enough  to  make  him  take  the  only  step  that 
would  have  been  efficient  against  its  perils. 

It  is  easy  to  say  now  that  he  ought  to  have  gone  awa}' — ought 
to  have  run  from  the  self  that  he  was  when  a  three-days-a-week 
guest  at  The  Cedars,  and  found  another  and  wiser  self  in  change 
and  incident  elsewhere.  But  who  is  qualified  to  preach  upon 
the  subject  except  he  has  been  in  the  same  position?  Think  what 
is  meant  by  the  clash  between  two  of  the  strongest  human  affec- 
tions in  one  human  soul;  the  one  of  them  the  closest  tie  of 
friendship  that  can  link  man  to  man,  the  other  the  pitiless 
magnetism  of  mere  beauty.  For  that  describes  in  a  word  the 
thraldom  in  which  Fred  had  been  entangled  by  Miss  Hinchliffe; 
still  exercised  by  her,  perhaps  consciously,  as  Mrs.  Charles 
Snaith.  And  to  Fred,  Charley  remained  still  the  boy  with  a 
large  nose  whom  he  took  into  his  heart  without  reserve  on  the 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  291 

very  first  day  of  their  school  life;  who  had  been  Pythias  to  his 
Damon  day  by  day  and  hour  by  hour  ever  since. 

The  sway  of  such  a  friendship  is  the  most  powerful  influence 
known  to  man,  except  the  love  of  woman.  And  one  variety 
I  of  this  last  is  as  a  burning  fire;  the  sort  that  is  kindled  by  what 
the  story  had  just  called,  in  compliance  with  convention,  mere 
beauty.  Why  mere.  Heaven  knows,  when  it  has  all  but  the 
power  of  gold — gold  that  can  make  foul  fair,  wrong  right,  base 
noble,  and  warp  the  best  man's  heart  against  himself.  It  is 
a  love  that  calls  for  no  return,  a  fire  that  rages  with  no  fuel 
beyond  what  sight  and  hearing  can  supply.  It  is  strangely 
independent  of  its  object's  sentiments;  indeed,  in  some  cases 
that  object's  scorn  only  stimulates  it.  But  it  is  omnipotent 
for  mischief,  and  he  who  speaks  lightly  of  the  Cyprian  goddess 
had  best  beware  that  he  is  well  outside  her  realm.  Many  peace- 
ful and  blameless  lives  of  men  might  have  been  quite  otherwise 
had  Fate  carried  them  to  the  neighbourhood  of  the  Venus- 
berg. 

So  the  story  asks  you  to  pity  Fred,  not  to  blame  him.  Say,  if 
you  will,  that  his  good  and  evil  Angels  were  at  grips  for  his 
soul,  but  admit  that  he  himself  was  on  the  side  of  the  former 
— a  constant  backer.  And  note  this — that  it  was  impossible  for 
him  to  withdraw  from  the  zone  of  danger,  without  also  seeming 
to  fly  from  the  zone  of  friendship.  How  could  he  account  to 
Charley  for  his  change  of  front,  if  he  abruptly  ceased  to  make  a 
home  of  The  Cedars?  True,  he  might  have  been  seized  with  a 
sudden  intense  desire  for  foreign  travel,  and  thereby  given  his 
good  Angel  a  chance  for  a  right-swing  home  on  the  jaws  of  his 
opponent.  But  how  about  his  duty  to  his  mother?  A  short 
absence  would  be  useless.  Indeed,  could  any  absence  be  long 
enough?  And  how  could  he  leave  her  alone,  to  brood  over  the 
past,  to  nurse  the  nightmare  imagination  of  his  uncle's  murder 
— murder,  perhaps;  unexplained  death,  certainly — while  he 
ranged  free  over  the  wide  world? 

If  she  would  have  consented  to  accompany  him,  all  ends  might 
have  been  served.  And  no  doubt  she  would  have  done  so  had 
he  said  to  her : — "  I  am  distracted  for  love  of  my  friend's  wife, 
and  cannot  get  out  of  range  of  her  eyes  that  madden  me,  her 
voice  that  cuts  me  like  a  knife;  and  1  cannot  make  my  friend 
the  confidant  of  my  reason  for  doing  so.  Help  me  by  assenting 
to  my  conviction,  and  his,  that  you  would  benefit  by  a  complete 
change  of  scene,  and  so  warrant  my  absence  as  your  companion." 
But  it  was  impossible  for  him  even  to  hint  at  more  than  the  last 


292  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

suggestion  of  this.  He  managed  to  get  so  far,  certainl3^  But 
his  mother  stopped  him  peremptorily.  She  was  all  in  favour  of 
his  going,  but  nothing  would  induce  lier  to  leave  home;  not  even 
the  pleasure  of  showing  her  son  the  old  Flemish  towns  where 
she  and  her  husband  had  spent  their  hone^anoon  thirty-odd 
years  ago.  To  go  away  with  the  terrible  burden  of  this  undis- 
covered mystery  upon  her  of  her  brother-in-law's  death — she 
always  spoke  of  it  as  a  certainty — would  be  no  relief  or  relaxa- 
tion to  her.  Nothing  would  be  that,  except  illumination  as  to 
its  cause.  That  she  was  convinced  he  had  been  murdered  only 
made  matters  worse.  If  she  could  have  believed  any  of  the 
theories  of  accidental  death  that  had  been  launched  without  data 
&l  any  sort,  she  would  have  been  as  happy  in  one  place  as 
another,  and  would  have  accompanied  her  son  for  his  sake;  but 
he  must  take  her  word  for  it  that  she  was  happiest  in  her  own 
home,  where  the  Doctor  would  find  all  unchanged  if — if — some 
strange  combination  of  unknown  events  should  come  to  light, 
and  yield  him  up,  after  all,  uninjured. 

Let  anyone  who  has  ever  had  a  difficult  confession  to  make 
say  how  he  would  have  had  Fred  Carteret  word  such  a  one  as 
his  would  have  been,  even  to  his  own  mother. 

For  him,  the  secret  communings  with  himself — a  regular 
system  of  self-torture  whenever  he  found  himself  alone — always 
ended  the  same  way.  The  easiest  and  the  only  course  open  to 
him  was  to  live  his  life  out  as  best  he  might,  always  making 
dissimulation  absolute  in  the  presence  of  his  friend.  That  was 
the  one  great  point  he  had  to  keep  in  view.  Like  the  Spartan 
bitten  beneath  his  cloak  by  the  fox  he  was  concealing,  Fred 
choked  back  every  approach  to  an  expression  of  pain.  So  long 
as  lie  conceived  that  his  passion  was  unsuspected  by  its  object, 
his  was  no  half-hearted  secrecy.  As  for  poor  Charley,  he  was 
unsuspicion  itself. 

And  the  creator  of  all  this  turmoil,  how  far  was  she  aware 
of  her  handiwork?  The  story  hesitates  to  say.  Is  it  possible  that 
that  very  disagreeable  woman  whom  Mrs.  Browning  imagined 
into  a  position  much  like  that  of  Mrs.  Lucy  Snaith  was  all  the 
while  chuckling  in  her  inmost  heart  to  think  how  great  her 
power  was  over  this  fool  of  a  man?  Him  and  his  love,  forsooth! 
Look  at  her  position  of  vantage!  How  could  anything  assail  it? 
What  had  she  been  guilty  of,  except  existence?  And  yet,  had 
she  been  brought  to  trial  before  a  jury  of  her  own  sex,  which 
«f  the  jurywomen  would  have  acquitted  her?  And  among  her 
own  friends  even,  would  not  one  or  two  have  been  found  to  say 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  293 

that  Sukey — or  Sophonisba,  or  whatever  her  name  was — knew 
perfectly  well  what  she  was  about  all  the  time? 

However,  the  story  hopes.  That  is  all  it  can  do,  with  its 
very  imperfect  information  about  the  inmost  souls  of  its  char- 
acters. Perhaps  Lucy  Snaith  was  innocence  itself,  at  this  date 
— was  utterly  in  the  dark  about  her  husband's  friend's  inner- 
most, and  its  perturbations.  Perhaps  her  smiles  were  only  meant 
for  his  outworks;  her  rich  voice  for  his  ears  only,  not  for  his 
heart.  Perhaps,  when  he  was  pending,  she  never  stood  before  a 
mirror  thinking  what  that  beautiful  form  would  look  best  in, 
or  schemed  a  vision  for  his  eyes  before  she  went  to  dress. 
Perhaps. 

"  I  tell  you  what,  Fred,"  said  Charley  one  evening,  as  they 
ended  the  week  with  a  pipe  apiece,  like  Corydon  and  Alexis: — 
"  You'll  have  to  persuade  your  mother  to  go  away  somewhere 
for  a  change.  If  she  sticks  on  at  the  Vale,  peaking  and  pining 
about  this  business  ...  Oh  yes,  I  know !  It's  an  awful  busi- 
ness! .  .  .  she  won't  do  any  good,  and  she'll  be  an  old  woman 
in  a  year  or  so.  Then,  all  of  a  sudden,  the  Doctor  will  turn 
up,  and  it'll  all  be  wasted." 

"  What  will  all  be  wasted  ?  " 

"  All  her  peaking  and  pining.     All  thrown  away  !  " 

This,  or  something  near  it,  was  a  sort  of  standard  conver- 
sation, to  be  continued  or  not.  Fred's  reply  was  continuation, 
of  a  sort.  '*  Do  you  mean  to  say,  Charley,  that  you  expect  ever 
to  see  the  old  Doctor  alive  again?  .  .  .  No,  I  expect  you  don't 
— any  more  than  I  do."  This  last  was  a  private  record  of 
inner  conviction,  whatever  his  friend  might  say. 

But  Charley  was  not  going  to  yield  the  point.  ''  My  dear 
Frederic,"  said  he,  "  you  are  not  looking  at  the  thing  from  the 
right  angle.  A  great  deal  turns — as  you  ought  to  know,  con- 
sidering you  are  an  engineer — on  the  angles  people  look  at 
things  from.  Have  the  goodness  to  look — metaphorically — 
over  my  shoulder,  and  endeavour  to  see  the  thing  as  I  S2e  it. 
I  share  the  conviction  of  each  of  my  fellow-creatures,  that 
everyone  else  will  benefit  bv  seeing  things  as  he  sees  them." 

"Cut  along,  old  Prosy!" 

This  seemed  an  appeal  for  seriousness,  and  was  accepted  as 
such.  "'  Have  you  had  any  further  conversation  with  Manton 
about  the  case — the  police  officer?  "  Charley  waited,  his  pipe 
in  his  fingers  and  his  eyes  on  his  friend,  as  though  something 
turned  on  his  question. 

No,  I  haven't.     Why?" 


a 


294  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

"  Because  I  have.  I  saw  him  last  week.  I  didn't  mention  it, 
for  fear  of  making  too  much  of  it.  But  you  may  just  as  well 
know  what  he  said.  He  had  called  at  Trymer's  to  take  instruc- 
tions about  another  business,  and  when  he  had  got  them  I 
asked  him  what  he  thought  now  about  your  case.  To  my  sur- 
prise his  answer  was : — "  I  think  just  what  I  thought  three 
months  after  Dr.  Carteret's  disappearance.  He  might  turn  up 
at  any  moment."  Trymer  asked  him  what  his  views  were  as 
to  the  possible  cause  of  such  a  disappearance,  and  he  said  he  had 
none.  '  Then/  said  Trymer,  '  how  on  earth  can  you  believe  his 
reappearance  possible  ?  '  " 

"  Ah — how  could  he  ?  I  thought  him  a  muddle-headed  sort 
of  chap." 

"  He's  sharper  than  you  think.  There's  something  to  be  said 
for  his  view  of  the  matter.  ...  I  was  trying  to  tliink  of  his 
exact  words.    ..." 

"  I  should  certainly  like  to  know  them." 

"  He  said : — '  You  think  I'm  talking  nonsense,  Mr.  Trymer. 
But  I  assure  you  that  in  all  the  dozen  or  so  of  disappearances 
I  have  known,  the  guesswork  about  the  cause  has  been  all  wrong 
in  at  least  four-fifths  of  the  cases.  As  for  the  odd  fifth,  the 
parties  that  guessed  right  always  had  something  to  guide  'em. 
We've  got  nothing !  " 

"  Almost  nothing!  " 

"  Well— what  have  we  ?  " 

"  H'm — well ! — at  least  we  know  where  he  was  last  seen.  In 
this  very  identical  house." 

"  How  does  that  help  us  ?  " 

Fred  tried  to  look  as  if  what  he  was  going  to  say  would  be 
very  convincing  when  he  uttered  it.  But  he  had  not  thought  of 
what  it  was  to  be;  and  when  Charley  said,  as  one  who  expects 
enlightenment: — "Well?",  he  had  no  answer  ready.  So  he 
said  he  didn't  know  th'at  it  did  come  to  much  after  all,  when 
you  came  to  think  of  it. 

"  Comes  to  notliing,"  said  his  friend.  "  And  yet  it  remains 
the  only  trace  of  a  clue — if  it  can  be  called  a  clue — that  we 
have."  Then,  as  the  conversation  had  gravitated  into  a  well- 
worn  channel,  it  lapsed.  The  two  young  men  smoked  over  it 
reflectively,  until  a  corollary  suggested  itself. 

"  I  wonder,"  said  Fred,  "  if  those  two  old  images  are  still 
come-at-able.  You  know  who  I  mean?  The  caretakers  who 
had  come  for  a  month  or  so,  and  lived  here  a  decade  or  so. 
What's  become  of  them?" 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  295 

"  Didn't  I — hear — my  missus — say,"  said  Charley,  with  slow 
consideration, — "  that  some  means  of  tracing  these  images  still 
existed?  I'm  pretty  sure  she  did,  but  whether  it  was  through 
an  individual  or  a  corporate  body  of  some  sort,  I  couldn't  say. 
The  exact  expression  my  wife  used  was : — '  The  Wash  knows.'  " 

"  Can  it  be  approached — the  Wash — and  enquiry  made  ?  " 
Fred  asked  doubtfully,  as  though  his  question  referred  to  the 
Bank  of  England  or  the  Privy  Council. 

"  I  am  told  that  it  comes  in  person  on  Friday  evenings  in  its 
cart,  for  it  has  a  cart.  I  suspect  it  of  being  the  same  thing  that 
talks  continuously  in  the  kitchen  for  an  hour,  chiefly  reporting 
conversations  it  has  had  elsewhere.  I  have  heard  it,  through 
open  windows,  in  my  dressing-room,  so  I  know.  It  cannot  be 
communicated  with  directly;  there  must  be  an  intercessor  and 
mediator." 

"  Would  not   .    .    ."  Fred  began. 

"  Lu  know  ?  "  Her  husband  finished  the  question,  filling  in 
the  name  for  his  friend  as  he  often  did,  to  a  peculiar  pause, 
which  he  had  become  very  familiar  with.  "  Yes — she  must  be 
the  intercessor  and  mediator.  Suppose  we  go  and  ask  her ! 
Done  3-our  pipe  ?  "  Fred  had  come  to  the  end  of  it,  or  said  so, 
and  the  two  sought  the  drawing-room. 

"  Come  at  last !  "  said  the  beautiful  young  mistress  of  The 
Cedars,  stretching  herself  and  yawning  like  any  schoolboy.  Of 
course  we  all  know  that  it's  unladylike  to  stretch,  because  it  takes 
the  arms  away  from  the  sides,  and  invites  the  confidence  of  the 
Universe  about  one's  outline.  But  it  may  be  done  gracefully 
or  ungracefully,  however  disgracefully.  Lucy's  method  was  con- 
sistent with  the  first,  and  claimed  exemption  from  the  third, 
as  there  was  no  company.  Fred  was  not  company;  no  house-cat 
was  more  apprivoisL 

"  I  don't  see  that  we  are  so  very  late,"  says  the  master  of  the 
house,  humbly.     "  It's  not  ten  yet." 

"  I  relied  upon  you,"  says  the  young  lady  to  Fred,  reproach- 
fully. "  However,  I  forgive  you  this  once,  now  you  have  come." 
She  forgave  him  with  both  eyes,  as  the  stretch  abated,  ending 
in  a  slight  counterstretch  downwards,  and  a  repressed  yawn. 
"  What  am  I  to  sing,  please  ?  "  The  question  Was  nearly  one  long 
word,  spoken  through  the  yawn  without  consonants. 

Her  husband,  by  this  time  seeking  for  the  leader  in  the  Morn- 
ing Post,  said  absently  but  cheerfully : — ""  Sing^  sing,  what  shall 
I  sing?  I  say,  I  always  wonder  whether  that  party  got  the 
pudding-string  back  from  the  cat,  or  not." 


296  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

Lucy  ignored  the  remark.  **  What  shall  I?"  said  she  to  Fred 
exclusively.  Charley  was  rather  outside  the  music  zone,  and 
did  not  resent  this,  but  settled  ,down  to  his  leader.  Presently, 
however,  he  remembered  something,  as  his  wife  and  friend  to- 
gether turned  over  Italian  music  of  two  hundred  years  ago, 
wavering  between  this  and  that.  "  By-the-bye,"  said  he — "  those 
two  old  fogies !  " 

His  wife  said: — '"Those  two  old  whats?"  And  Fred  said: — 
"  Oh,  ah  yes — by  the  way  !  How  about  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Klem  ?  " 
For  this  name  had  been  substituted  for  that  of  Grewbeer  in 
honour  of  Dickens's  caretakers  in  the  "  Uncommercial  Trav- 
eller." 

Charles  explained.  "  The  deaf  parties.  The  old  woman  who 
was' the  owner  of  a  sink.  Don't  you  remember,  Lu?  Why,  she 
very  nearly  put  you  off  taking  the  house !  "  The  lady  remem- 
bered, with  expression  of  abhorrence  for  an  unforgotten  flavour. 
"■'  Well — didn't  I  understand  that  these  parties  could  be  traced ; 
in  fact,  that  their  whereabouts  was  known  to  a  person,  or  per- 
sons, or  company,  or  confederation,  or  league,  or  firm,  known 
as  ^The  Wash'?" 

"  I  suppose  you  mean  the  laundress.  Very  likely  she  knows. 
You  must  ask  Modicum  to  ask  her,  when  she  brings  the  wash 
on  Friday.  She  sees  her.  What  do  you  want  with  the  care- 
takers?" But  the  lady  did  not  wait  for  an  answer,  going  back 
to  Stradella  and  Galuppi.  "  It's  a  tenor  song,  "  Star  vicino.' 
But  of  course  I  can  sing  it  if  you  particularly  want  it."  Then 
she  harked  back,  as  though  further  reflection  had  roused  curi- 
osity. •*  Well,  Charles,  aren't  you  going  to  tell  us — what  you 
want  with  the  caretakers,  I  mean !  "  She  had  already  come  to 
treat  her  husband  as  most  ladies  do,  in  a  year  or  so ;  a  harmless 
creature  he,  with  strange  fads,  to  be  tolerated  when  the  lady 
has  time  for  toleration,  not  otherwise. 

"  Fred  wants  'em.  Wants  to  keep  'em  in  sight,  anyhow." 
Charles  was  trying  to  read  the  leader  at  the  same  time,  so  he  | 
treated  the  subject  as  lapsable,  and  lapsed  it.  Fred  nodded  an 
affirmative  to  Lucy's  look  of  enquiry,  and  added  explanation: — 
"  You  see,  the  old  woman  was  the  very  last  person  who  set  eyes 
on  my  uncle.  It's  no  clue,  because  it's  known  that  he  left  the 
house.     But  I  don't  want  to  lose  touch  with  her — in  case  ..." 

ChaHes  laid  down  his  paper  to  correct  an  important  point. 
"  Not  the  very  last  person !  "  said  he.  "  Because  the  boy — sup- 
posing his  denial  of  the  fact  to  be  false — saw  him  go  out  of  the 
gate  towards  Wimbledon." 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  297 

"  But  he  didn't  speak  to  him?  "     This  was  liis  wife. 

Fred  said : — "  That's  what  I  meant.  One  means  '  talk  '  by 
'see.'  As  for  the  boy,  lie  must  have  seen  him  go  out.  Most 
likely  he  didn't  stay  to  mind  the  horse  at  all,  and  won't  confess 
up.     He  went  off  after  a  friend.     After  all,  a  boy's  a  boy." 

"  Yes,  I  don't  think  much  of  the  boy's  evidence,  one  way  or 
the  other.  But  anyway,  Dr.  Carteret  went  out  of  the  house,  or 
lie  would  be  in  it  still,  to  a  certainty."  Fred  saw,  but  the 
speaker  did  not  notice,  his  wife's  slight  movement  of  protest 
or  dissent — or  rather  change  of  expression — but  continued  : — 
'•  The  Wash  may  be  legitimately  asked  to  furnish  Mrs.  Klem's 
address,  anyhow.  You'll  see  to  it,  dearest,  won't  you?"  But 
his  wife's  attention  was  already  given  to  her  search  for  a  song, 
and  he  had  to  resay  his  last  words : — '*  Won't  you,  dearest  ?  " 

"  Oh  yes — let  me  see — the  old  caretaker's  address.  You  must 
remember  to  remind  me  when  Modicum's  here.  Mind  you  do !  " 
The  song  was  found  in  a  volume,  and  taken  to  the  piano.  Fred 
followed  to  turn  the  pages.  He  is  her  slave,  but  his  slavery  is  a 
misery  to  him.     He  cannot  see  the  end  of  it. 

He  almost  hopes  she  will  keep  those  eyes  on  the  song.  And 
yet  when  they  come  round  full  upon  him  he  accepts  their  intoxi- 
cation, for  how  can  he  do  otherwise?  "  Have  I  not  an  uncom- 
fortable husband?"  she  asks;  at  first,  to  Fred,  inexplicably. 
Then  in  answer  to  his  evident  incomprehension,  she  explains. 
"  So  creepy  to  say   .    .    .   You  don't  mind  mv  talking  about  it?  " 

"  No— why  should  I  ?  " 

"  To  say  that  if  Dr.  Carteret  didn't  go  out  of  the  house  he 
must  be  in  it  still !     Don't  you  think  so  ?  " 

"  I'm  not  sure  that  I  see  why,  exactly." 

"  It  seemed  to  me  an  idea  to  have  cold  creeps  about.  That's 
all."  She  adjusted  the  music  on  the  piano,  but  used  the  time 
occupied  in  doing  so  to  say  to  Fred,  for  his  ears  only : — "  Who's 
to  know  that  that  boy  isn't  speaking  the  truth  ?  " 

Fred  said: — "Does  it  make  any  difference?"  But  the 
leader-reader  had  caught  the  upshot,  and  said  over  his  shoul- 
der : — "  Of  course  it  doesn't !  The  fact  that  a  boy  hasn't  seen 
a  person  go  out  of  a  house  proves  nothing.  It's  the  most  nega- 
tive evidence  possible.  But  the  fact  that  a  person  is  known  not 
to  be  in  a  house  is  positive  evidence  that  he's  gone  out  of 
it." 

"  I  s-see,"  said  his  wife,  languidly,  to  show  lier  indifference 
to  such  subjects.  But  the  sting  of  her  indifference,  like  the 
poison  in  the  rattlesnake's  tail,  was  in  her  postscript.     "  How 


298  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

long  does  it  take  to  know  that  a  person  isn't  in  a  house?"  she 
asked.     "  Can  you  do  it  right  off  ?  " 

Her  husband  saw  shoal-water  ahead,  and  starboarded — or 
ported — his  helm.  "  It's  more  a  matter  of  practice,  my  love, 
than  evidence,"  said  he.  "  One  is  practically  certain  a  person 
isn't  in  a  house  when  one  has  lived  in  it  without  seeing  him 
long  enough." 

"  If  one  is  grown  up,  I  suppose?  " 

"  Don't  understand." 

"  I  understand  that  boys  not  seeing  people  come  out  of  houses 
proved  nothing.  So  I  suppose  the  persons  who  don't  see  them 
inside  the  houses  must  be  grown  up,  to  prove  anything." 

"  I  say,  Luce ! — you're  horribly  sharp.  Isn't  she,  Fred  ? — 
sharp  as  a  razor."  He  was  proud  of  his  wife's  cleverness — 
which  Fred  more  than  admitted — but  always  with  reservations, 
in  the  background,'  connected  with  the  fact  that  women's  wits, 
compared  with  men's,  are  hors  de  concours.  To  Fred,  her  bril- 
liancy seemed  dazzling.  Why  is  it  that,  when  men  are  entranced 
by  a  woman's  beauty,  the  slightest  manifestation  of  human 
intelligence  on  her  part  is  regarded  by  their  devotee  as 
miraculous  ? 

Charley  became  absorbed  in  his  leader.  Mrs.  Hinchliffe, 
who  hacl  been  reading  and  dozing  on  the  sofa-chair,  took  her 
candle  and  retired  for  the  night.  Mrs.  Charles,  remarking  that 
she  was  not  going  for  a  long  time  yet,  found  another  song  to 


smg. 


Fred,  fatally  absorbed,  hung  on  every  note.  This  was  all  in 
harmony  with  what  had  gone  on  every  evening  Fred  spent  at 
The  Cedars;  and  those  evenings  were  many.  Charles  was  so 
glad  his  friend  and  his  wife  should  be  so  like  brother  and  sister. 

He  went  into  the  library  to  get  a  book,  and  couldn't  find  it 
offhand.  The  song  finished  in  his  absence,  and  the  singer  turned 
to  her  enthralled  listener,  saying  rather  to  his  surprise,  for  he 
thought  the  subject  forgotten : — "  It  doesn't  make  Charles  un- 
comfortable. Odd — isn't  it?  "  He  had  no  doubt  what  she  was 
referring  to.  The  book  seeker  was  far  enough  off,  turning  over 
leaves,  so  it  was  not  the  fear  of  being  overheard  that  kept  Fred 
from  saying: — "No — why  should  he  be  uncomfortable?"  It 
was  the  fact  that  he  himself  never  entered  the  house  without 
the  thought  crossing  his  mind  that  he  would  be  so  much  better 
satisfied  had  his  uncle  been  traced  to  some  place  he  only  knew 
by  name,  and  had  never  set  foot  in.  That  image  of  Dr.  Carteret, 
as  Mrs.  Grewbeer  had  reported  on  him,  talking  to  himself  at  this 


I 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  299 

end  of  the  long  passage  to  the  greenhouse,  refused  to  make  its 
exit  from  the  chambers  of  Fred's  imagination. 

So  he  left  Charles's  oddness,  or  otherwise,  an  open  question, 
and  took  refuge  in  generalities.  It  was,  of  course,  all  nervous 
fancy,  because  we  knew,  practically,  that  the  missing  man  had 
gone  away  to  Wimbledon  to  catch  the  five-thirty  from  Waterloo. 
But  what  a  powerful  agency  nervous  fancy  was !  He  confessed 
to  the  way  in  which  his  own  got  possession  of  him.  Charley 
was  exactly  the  same,  only  he  wouldn't  admit  it.  He  thought 
it  was  his  duty  to  pooh-pooh  things,  and  call  them  subjective. 
After  all,  what  was  more  subjective  than  a  nightmare,  and  what 
misery  was  more  grievous  than  a  bad  one? 

Mrs.  Lucy,  still  seated  at  the  piano,  listened  unimpressed — so 
it  seemed — to  the  gentleman's  dutiful  recital  of  indisputable 
truths.  Her  beautiful  left  hand  touched  the  notes  of  some 
phrase  that  remained  unheard,  tantalising  the  keys.  She  played 
it  over  again  in  a  short  silence  that  followed ;  then  said  with  her 
dangerous  eyes  behind  their  dropped  lids,  looking  down  on  her 
fingers : — "  Are  we  so  nervous  then,  you  and  I,  Fred  ?  I  had 
not  thought  so — not  of  myself,  at  least."  And  Fred  half  formed 
in  his  inmost  heart  a  prayer  that  those  eyes  would  keep  in 
ambush,  with  that  gold  ring  on  the  piano-hand's  third  finger 
all  but  exclaiming  aloud  : — "  Remember  me  !  " 

The  story's  aim  is  to  dwell,  so  far  as  may  be,  on  moments 
like  this,  that  its  reader  may  find  excuse  for  this  young  man. 
It  finds  many,  itself;  scarcely  perhaps  in  this  one  instance,  so 
much  as  in  its  sequel. 

For  his  infatuation,  or  his  Evil  Star,  or  both,  egged  him  on 
to  an  analysis  most  safely  left  alone — symptoms  are  always 
perilous ! — and  made  him  say : — "  Perhaps  I  didn't  mean  ner- 
vous fancies  exactly  in  that  sense.  I  was  referring  to  a  tendency 
of  the  mind.  The  expression — as  it  is  used — connects  itself 
with  fever — something  feverish.    ..." 

Lucy  suddenly  raised  her  eyes  from  her  jewelled  fingers; 
unmasked  a  concealed  battery,  as  it  were !  "  Am  /  feverish  ?  " 
said  she.  "  Feel  my  pulse,  and  be  convinced !  "  A  dowdy  of 
heartfelt  stuffiness  might  have  done  this  unblamed.  But  to 
stretch  out  such  a  hand  as  that,  backed  by  such  a  glance, 
endorsed  by  such  a  smile  !     Was  it  fair  ? 

Fred  could  not  take  flight.     That  was  not  open  to  him. 

But  he  would  have  done  so  if  he  could.  Standing  committed 
as  he  did  to  whatever  falsehood  was  necessary  to  the  only  part 
possible  to  him — that  of  cold  friendship — it  was  clear  that  the 


300  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

more  thoroughly  he  played  the  part  the  better.  Ho  accepted  the 
role  of  medical  attendant  for  the  nonce,  and  drew  out  his  watch, 
which  had  a  second  hand. 

"Feeling  pulses?  What's  the  fun?"  Thus  Charley,  coming 
all  unconscious  from  the  next  room  with  a  captured  book.  His 
good-humoured  acquiescence  in  anything — in  everything — had  a 
kind  of  reassurance  in  it  for  Fred.  Clearly,  his  own  ignes 
suppnsiti  were  idiosyncrasy.  A  normal,  reasonable  man  could 
touch  that  hand  without  a  tremor,  could  meet  those  eyes  without 
flinching. 

"  Never  you  mind,  Mr.  Inquisitiveness ! "  says  the  lady. 
"Seventy  something,  isn't  it,  Fred?  It's  sure  to  be  that.  I 
know  that  much !  "  Fred  reports  seventy-four,  and  puts  his 
watch  away.    "  Now,  what's  yours?  " 

But  Fred  won't  keep  his  watch  out.  "  It's  no  use  comparing 
it  with  mine,"  says  he.  "  Mine  always  gallops."  Then  to 
Charley,  amused  but  awaiting  enlightenment: — "You  see,  ner- 
vousness was  under  discussion,  and  I  said  one  might  suffer  from 
mental  nervousness  without  what  is  commonly  called  by  the 
name — physical  nervousness.    ..." 

"  You  said  " — thus  Lucy,  striking  in — "  that  nervousness  and 
feverishness  were  much  of  a  muchness.  And  I  said  I  wasn't 
feverish — witness  mv  pulse !  That's  where  we  got  to  pulses — 
Fred  and  I." 

"Are  you  satisfied,  old  chap?"  says  Charley. 

Fred  laughs.  "  Lucy's  as  cool  as  any  cucumber/'  he  says. 
"  But  that  proves  my  position." 

"  Which  is  ?  " 

"  That  one  may  be  mentally  nervous  without  any  fererish- 
ness  at  all." 

"What's  the  mental  nervosity  this  time?"  says  the  subject's 
husband,  caressing  her.     "What  are  we  in  a  stew  about?" 

"  Nothing.   .    .    .   It's  late.     Suppose  we  go  to  bed  !  " 

"All  right.     But  what  is  it?     Mustn't  I  be  told?  " 

"  Not  by  me.  Fm  going  to  bed.  Fred  must  tell  you.  Ask 
him."     This  had  to  be  enough  for  the  moment. 

Now,  it  must  be  understood  that  the  sitting-room  where  this 
conversation  took  place  was  a  passage-room;  had  a  door  at 
either  end.  The  two  flights  of  stairs  gave  a  choice  of  which 
end  of  a  lobby  a  stair-climber  preferred.  The  obvious  one  for 
Mrs.  Charles  Snaith's  exit  was  the  one  further  from  the  main 
staircase;  and  nearest  to  the  back  staircase,  near  Mrs.  Klem's 
former   quarters.      For   some   reason,  this   time,   she  chose  the 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  301 

latter — the  much  longer  way.  But  her  candle  was  in  the  other 
lobby,  and  Charles  must  get  it  for  her.  Competition  ensued  for 
the  privilege  of  discovering  and  lighting  it,  and  Fred  reached 
the  door  first,  going  away  through  the  room  beyond,  candle 
seeking. 

In  his  absence,  the  talk  ran  as  follows : 

"  I  say,  sweetheart,  of  course  a  real  lady  has  a  right  to  go  to 
bed  up  any  staircase  she  likes,  but  when  her  candlestick's  at 
the  South  Pole  ..." 

"  It's  her  concern,  anyhow.  You  know  mamma  has  heard 
from  Lady  Humphrey  Pordage,  whose  odious  dinner-party  is 
put  off.     Isn't  it  a  blessing?" 

"  An  awful  blessing !  With  every  sentiment  of  respect,  esteem, 
and  veneration  for  her  ladyship — damn  Lady  Humphrey 
Pordage  !  .  .  .  But  I  sa}' — look  here !  Be  a  ducky  darling  and 
tell  me  reasons  why.  I  mean  why  you  like  that  staircase  so 
much  better  than  the  other." 

"  Never  mind  !  " 

"  Yes — but  do  tell  your  loving  husband.  Remember  he  may 
beat  you  with  any  stick  no  thicker  than  his  thumb !  " 

"  Silly  Charles !  .  .  .  Well — you  know  perfectly  well.  It's 
that  dreadful  old  man  of  Fred's.  We've  been  talking  about  him 
and  it's  brought  it  all  back." 

"  But — you  goosey ! — he  was  ever  so  far  on.  I  mean  when 
the  old  sink  proprietor  saw  the  last  of  him.  He  was  out  away 
near  the  green'us." 

"  Well — I  know  that  as  well  as  you  do.  But  he  had  Just 
come  down  by  the  big  stairs.  You  said  Old  Sinkey  said  so. 
There's  Fred."  It  was,  and  the  conversation  ended.  The  lady 
departed. 

This  narrative  aims  at  Psychology.  So  it  may  note  as  curious 
a  memory  that  stirred  in  Fred's  mind  at  this  moment.  A  dis- 
tinct recollection  of  a  day-dream  of  two  years  ago  crossed  it;  a 
day-dream  of  the  double  household  and  the  young  mistresses 
■of  each,  each  on  her  own  staircase;  the  fair  one — the  might-Iiavo- 
been — painfully  inferior  to  the  one  that  had  become  a  reality ! 
There  on  that  stairway,  a  few  yards  olf,  was  she  at  this  moment, 
where  his  fancy  had  placed  her  two  years  ago ! 

Would  it  luive  been  harder  to  stilie  his  underlying  fires  had 
Cintra  become  his  wife?  Had  lie  and  she  been  man  and  wife 
now,  in  the  halved  house  with  the  doubled  household,  would 
the  ashes  that  concealed  them  now  have  been  one  whit  more 
treacherous,  the  cinis  one  particle  more  dolosusf     But  how  about 

23 


302  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

the  duplicit}^  of  his  concealment  then;  its  activity  of  simulation, 
set  against  the  passivity  of  mere  dissimulation  7ioiv?  The  last 
was  possible,  he  knew,  though  difficult.  Would  his  powers  as 
an  actor  have  been  sufficient  for  the  former  part?  No — Cintra 
had  acted  wisely  in  forestalling  and  avoiding  the  situation. 

Forsake  Psychology,  and  go  back  to  fact.  \Yhen  the  two 
young  men  were  left  alone  after  the  young  lady's  departure^  her 
husband  turned  to  his  friend,  saying: — "  Eum,  isn't  it?" 

"  What's  rum  ?  "  said  Fred. 

"  The  way  Lu  wrong-sherries  "—an  obvious  perversion  of  a 
French  word,  quite  understandable — "  over  that  unfortunate 
knowledge  of  where  Dr.  Carteret  was  last  seen.  It  quite  spoils 
one  side  of  the  house.  I  wish  to  gracious  goodness  I  had  never 
told  her  of  it." 

"  Couldn't   one  do   anj^thing  ?  "  • 

"Do  what?''  Fred  couldn't  say,  and  Charles  continued: — 
"  I  know  she  has  got  a  fixed  image  in  her  mind  of  the  old  boy 
coming  down  those  stairs,  based  on  Mrs.  Drewbeer — Strewbeer — 
Grewbeer — Mrs.  Klem's  statement,  in  fact."  Fred  could  under- 
stand that,  he  said.  He  himself  was  subject  to  ideas  of  the 
sort,  associating  people  with  places.  Charles  added,  ''  Then  she 
walks  the  image  on  as  far  as  Mrs.  Klem's  evidence  goes,  and  it 
gets  stuck,  just  at  this  end  of  the  greenhouse  passage." 

Fred  said,  after  reflection: — "I  suppose  if  the  untruthful  boy 
had  testified  that  he  saw  my  uncle  on  his  way  to  Wimbledon, 
that  would  have  set  her  mind  at  rest." 

"  Yes — she  would  have  been  able  to  think  of  your  uncle 
striding  along  the  main  road  to  catch  the  five-thirty.  As  it  is 
— I  can't  say  for  certain  of  course,  but  I  suspect  it's  true  for 
all  that — she  has  got  it  on  her  mind  that  your  uncle  never  .  .  . 
It's  quite  crazy,  you  know — a  sort  of  waking  nightmare.  A  day- 
mare,  as  you  m.ight  say  !  " 

"Cut  along,  old  boy!  That  my  uncle  never — what?  What 
didn't  he  do?" 

"  That  3'our  uncle  never  left  the  house  at  all !  "  Charles 
spoke  in  rather  a  subdued  way,  and  watched  Fred  to  see  what 
effect  this  idea  would  have  on  him.  It  had  never  been  hinted  at, 
except  as  an  example  of  the  impossible ;  but  for  all  that,  Charles 
felt  shy  of  propounding  it,  in  case  it  should  get  hold  of  Fred's 
mind,  and  work  disquiet  in  it.  His  wife's  dayniare  might  be 
infectious. 

"Never  left  the  house  at  all!"  Fred  repeated,  but  uncom- 
fortably.    "  Well — we  can  dismiss  tliat.     But  the  question  is. 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  303 

can't  we  do  anything  to  disabuse — her?"  Fred  nodded  towards 
the  door  Lucy  had  gone  out  by. 

''  Oh  no — hardly  necessary.  She'll  forget  all  about  it  soon 
enough." 

"  It's  a  good  long  time.     More  than  a  year,  anyhow." 

"  The  only  thing  I  can  see,"  said  Charley,  with  slow  consid- 
eration, '■'  is  to  get  at  that  boy,  and  make  him  testify." 

"'  Suppose  he  testifies  wrong  ?  Suppose  he  sticks  to  his  story, 
I  mean." 

"  Yes — that's  a  fix.  But  he  only  says  he  didn't  see  your 
uncle,  after  all.  What  we  want  is  someone  who  did  see  him, 
and  saw  him  go  out.  If  anyone  would  only  be  so  good  as  to 
tliinl:  he  saw  him,  that  would  set  Lu's  mind  at  rest.  Would  it 
be  any  good  to  try  to  convince  the  old  man  that  he  or  his  wife 
must  have  seen  him  go  out  because  he  unquestionably  did  go 
out?  He  would  recollect  seeing  him  for  a  pound,  no  doubt.  But 
one  isn't  exactly  Sampson  Brass.  ...  I  say,  it's  getting  on  for 
one  o'clock  to-morrow  morning." 

They  lighted  candles  and  departed  to  rest,  making  a  parade 
of  going  the  usual  way,  up  the  main  staircase.  But  a  restless 
spirit  was  on  them  about  the  old  unsolved  mystery,  that  would 
not  let  them  ignore  the  place  that  Avas  mixed  up  with  it.  At 
the  foot  of  the  stairs  Fred  stopped  and  looked  along  the  passage 
to  his  left.  He  never  passed  it  without  an  uncanny  conscious- 
ness of  its  story,  and  how  his  mind  was  full  of  it.  The  image 
of  the  vanished  man  was  on  him,  and  oppressed  him.  If,  by 
some  strange  turn  of  events,  his  old  guardian  should  reappear, 
safe  and  well,  how  would  he  answer  his  enquiries  about  things 
that  had  happened  in  his  absence?  He  could  fit  Ihe  speech: — 
'*' xVnd  what  became  of  the  madhouse,  nephew?"  so  easily  to 
the  magisterial  voice  that  had  become,  provisionally  at  least,  a 
thing  of  the  Past. 

Charley  answered  his  pause,  as  though  it  had  been  speech. 
'•  One  sees  exactly  how  it  is,"  said  he.  "  It's  because  there's  a 
kink  in  the  passage,  and  he  was  just  round  the  corner.  If  one 
saw  the  place  itself,  and  saw  there  was  no  one  there,  it  wouldn't 
give  anyone  the  jumps.  I  can  quite  understand  Lu's  idea.  If  I 
was  a  delicate  female,  no  doubt  I  should  feel  precisely  the  same. 
...  I  say,  how  would  it  be  to  put  a  curtain  across  the 
passage  ?  " 

'■'  Make  it  worse !  "  said  Fred,  decisively.  "  When  I  was  a 
small  kid,  I  was  always  frightened  at  what  was  on  the  other  side 
of  a  curtain.     No — a  door,  if  you  like !  " 


304  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

"  Well,  then,  a  door.     Ix)ts  of  room  for  it !     Too  much.'' 

"  We  could  make  it  up  with  panelling.  All  that's  easy." 
Obviously  so. 

Any  scheme  for  an  alteration  in  a  house  is  fascinating,  even 
at  two  in  the  morning,  and  Fred  produced  his  invariable  foot- 
rule,  to  allot  the  proportions  to  that  door  and  its  panellings. 
"  You  see,"  said  the  architect ;  "  this  was  the  wall  of  the  old 
house,  and  when  they  cut  through  it  to  connect  with  the  new  bit 
they  put  a  bressummer  across.  So  a  seven-foot  door  will  work  in 
nicely  without  any  panelling  across  the  top.  That's  a  partition 
you  are  up  against,  put  in  when  they  made  the  passage.  It's 
carried  on  a  small  ijirder  over  the  kitchen." 

"  I  see,"  said  Charley.  "Of  course  that's  why  the  kitchen's 
such  a  jolly  lot  larger  than  the  room  above  it.  They  didn't  cut 
-a  passage  off." 

"  They  didn't  want  one.  There  would  be  nowhere  to  go  to. 
The  new  building's  all  above  ground." 

"  Are  you  sure?     Isn't  there  a  cellar?  " 

"No  cellar — quite  sure!  Why — look  here!"  The  solid 
resistance  to  his  heel,  as  he  struck  it  down  on  the  floor,  said 
<?oncrete  inexorably. 

Charles  looked  doubtful.  "I  thought,"  said  he,  "that  I 
heard  hollowness  underneath,  in  the  long  passage,  the  other 
day." 

"Where?"  said  Fred. 

"  Try  it  and  see !  "  Charles  passed  him,  and  turned  round 
the  corner,  where  the  old  Doctor  had  been  left  by  Mrs.  Klem, 
stamping  on  the  ground  to  detect  hollowness.  But  he  was  little 
over  half-way,  when  he  stopped  short,  saying: — "Yes — what?" 
For  Fred  had  called  after  him,  inexplicably.  And,  still  more 
inexplicably,  he  now  said,  as  his  friend  came  back  for  explana- 
tion : — "  What  did  you  sing  out  for,  Charley,  to  me — just  now?  " 

"'  I  sav,  Fred,  this  won't  do !  This  is  the  lunatics  asrain.  Do 
vou  know  that  I  never  so  round  that  corner  without  vour  hearing 
me  sing  out?     I  never  sang  out." 

"  Yes — YOU  did.  At  least,  I  heard  vou.  I  thought  vou  had 
struck  ile — at  least,  struck  vacuum.     Eather  rum !  " 

"  Very  rum !  .  .  .  I  say,  there's  the  missus  calling.  We 
shall  catch  it.     Come  along !  " 

At  the  stair-top,  as  they  hurried  bedwards,  "was  a  vision  of 
beauty.  Its  lips  parted  to  say: — "  Oh  dear! — what  a  fright  you 
two  foolish  men  have  siven  me !  I  thought  something  was  the 
matter."     Its  hair  fell  back  in  great  rich  clusters,  over  a  mys- 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  305 

terious  Oriental  overwrap,  that  glistened  like  a  tropical  snake. 
Its  reproachful  eyes  flashed  through  many  stray  hairs,  a  scat- 
tered crowd  that  failed  to  hide  them.  It  was  not  a  vision  to 
sleep  upon,  but  to  lie  restless  and  feverish  awake  about.  Fred 
was  in  no  hurry  to  get  to  bed ;  and  when  he  did,  he  made  a  poor 
show  of  a  night's  rest. 

At  least,  there  was  one  consolation.  The  man  that  took  her 
in  his  arms,  and  Jcissed  those  lips  for  apology  and  consolation, 
was  Charley,  his  friend  of  friends.  How  it  would  have  mad- 
dened Fred  had  he  been  any  other  man  I 


CHAPTEE  XX 

The  little  dachshund  at  Maida  Vale  had  passed  a  large 
fraction  of  his  short  life  since  the  story  saw  him  last.  That  is 
the  worst  of  dogs,  they  live  so  fast,  or  get  through  their  lives 
so  soon — put  it  which  way  you  will.  The  cat,  self-ahsorbed  and 
immutable,  was  philosophically  unconcerned  at  this,  and  at 
everything  else,  so  long  as  the  Purveyor  of  her  Meat — who  also 
claimed  to  serve  the  Royal  Family — left  the  same  at  the  house 
each  morning,  impaled  on  a  skewer  by  an  expert,  who  knew 
exactly  how  much.  She  has  got  over  her  suspicion  of  the  new 
servant — for  Lipscombe  had  found  an  opportunity  of  bettering 
herself  v/ithout  growing — and  was  satisfied  that  Jane  the  par- 
lour maid  in  esse  ate  none  off  the  skewer  before  allotting  their 
respective  shares  to  herself  and  Liebig.  That  young  woman  was 
bony  and  knucklesome,  and  one  of  her  eyes  had  an  appearance 
of  having  been  taken  out  and  put  back  recently,  so  that  she  had 
scarcely  had  time  to  get  used  to  it.  When  asked  what  she  would 
prefer  to  be  called,  she  had  professed  indifference,  but  had 
thrown  out — for  the  guidance  of  her  new  mistress — that  she  had 
been  called  Ogden  in  her  last  place.  Mrs.  Carteret  having  de- 
murred to  this,  as  almost  too  drastic  a  name  for  a  young  woman, 
she  had  consented  to  Jane,  and  had  been  Jane  for  three  months 
at  the  date  of  the  story. 

Otherwise,  nothing  had  changed  but  the  colour  of  the  hair 
of  the  mistress  of  the  house.  It  was  not  quite  white;  but  it 
meant  to  be,  and  every  one  of  her  friends  knew  what  was  at  work 
to  cause  the  change.  The  Artistic  part  of  them  did  not  com- 
plain, but  the  contrary.  Miss  Values,  at  her  Studio,  said  to  Mr. 
Treatment,  who  had  looked  in  from  his,  five  hundred  Studios 
down — these  names  and  figures  are  wrong,  but  no  matter : — 
"  Ought  we  not,  Pindar,  don't  you  know,  to  be  grateful  for 
Trouble  when  it  contributes  to  Beauty?"  For  Mr.  Treatment 
was  an  old  friend,  and  much  her  junior,  so  she  called  him  by 
his  Christian  name.  And  he  repeated  her  words  later  to  an 
ally,  with  the  comment: — "  The  Old  Cat  wasn't  wrong,  for  once; 
only  I  wish  she  wouldn't  trot  out  her  gormy  daubs  and  ask  for 
my  honest  opinion  of  them.  Because  I  have  to  tell  all  sorts  of 
rotten  lies." 

306 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  307 

The  Old  Cat  in  question  was  certainly  right  this  time,  for 
there  could  be  no  doubt  of  the  addition  to  Mrs.  Carteret's  beauty, 
and  little  if  any  of  the  cause  of  it.  Her  face  did  not  suffer,  for 
a  slight  accent  laid  by  Xature  on  its  bone-structure  was  only 
another  Beauty,  of  a  new  sort.  But  her  son,  whose  aesthetic 
education  was  imperfect,  derived  no  consolation  from  these 
facts.  His  Philistine  soul  would  have  rejoiced  to  know  that 
the  weight  of  their  great  trouble  was  growing  less,  and  sparing 
hers.  For  her  part,  she  was  always  cheerful  in  her  words  to 
him,  so  far  as  circumstances  could  be  ignored  to  cheerfulness- 
point.  But  he  discredited  this  as  parti  pris  for  his  sake,  and 
indeed  that  was  all  tliat  it  was. 

Nancy  Fraser  was  a  constant  visitor  at  the  Vale,  staying  the 
night  as  often  as  not;  for  a  room  upstairs  was  by  now  familiarly 
spoken  of  as  "  Miss  Fraser's  apartment."  Her  presence  was  an 
embarrassment  to  Fred,  although  he  did  his  best  to  conceal  it. 
If  you  put  yourself  in  his  place  you  will  easily  understand  this. 
There  may  be  young  men  who  after  an  engagement  to  marry, 
broken  off,  have  maintained  their  connection  with  the  young 
lady's  family.  If  so,  they  were  unlike  Fred,  mentally  and 
morally.  He  and  Cintra  had  taken  up  an  attitude,  quoad  their 
families,  that  made  interference  in  their  affairs  more  difficult 
than  one  of  public  recrimination — mutual  fault-finding  soliciting 
the  sympathies  of  bystanders.  They  had  laid  such  stress  on  their 
prudence,  as  a  leading  motive,  that  their  seconds,  or  umpires — or 
whatever  they  are  that  hold  bottles  in  this  kind  of  match — were 
quite  nonplussed  and  reduced  to  trusting  to  Providence  to  see 
to  everything  being  in  order,  and  nothing  happening  that  could 
possibly  be  regretted  later.  Each  family  had  done  its  duty  in 
the  way  of  assurance  to  the  other  that  there  was  no  ill-will 
borne,  and  a  sufficient  number  of  chats  over  the  position  had 
ended  with  a  nem :  con :  resolution  that  these  things  were  in 
wiser  hands  than  ours,  and  that  Time  would  show.  Possibly 
Time  was  showing  at  the  date  of  the  story,  for  the  only  surviving 
record  of  Fred's  engagement  to  Cintra  then  was  the  seeming 
unalterable  friendship  between  her  sister  and  his  mother. 

A  kind  of  dry  geniality  was  Fred's  attitude  towards  Miss 
Fraser,  who  had  once  been  Nancy;  and,  in  her  absence,  even 
Elbows.  As  for  hers  towards  him,  she  drove  a  coach-and-six 
through  the  status-quo  nearly  every  time  she  spoke.  Justifica- 
tion was  not  wanting  for  this.  It  was  more  easy  and  natural 
for  her  to  put  his  name,  as  it  were,  in  inverted  commas  supplied 
by  his  mother,  than  for  him  to  "  Cintra  "  her  sister,  with  an 


308  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

implication  of  "  as  I  used  to  call  her,"  in  a  parenthesis,  every 
time  he  did  so.  He  solved  the  problem  by  speaking  of  C intra 
as  seldom  as  possible,  and,  when  he  did  so,  calling  her  "  your 
sister." 

It  was  not  long  after  that  evening  at  The  Cedars,  just 
recorded,  that  Fred,  letting  himself  in  with  his  latchkey  at  his 
mother's,  stumbled  on  Nancy  in  the  entrance  hall,  just  turning 
the  corner  of  the  stairs.  "  Good-evening^  Miss  Fraser,"  said  he, 
becoming  interested  in  a  letter  on  the  hall-table,  to  himself. 
This  was  dry  enough,  but  geniality  had  to  be  attended  to. 
"  Professor  quite  well?"  he  added  perfunctorily,  with  his  finger 
getting  the  better  of  the  envelope.  His  manner  said : — "  My 
interest  in  your  father  has  lapsed,  but  I  entertain  Christian 
sentiments  towards  him." 

"  You  know  you  don't  care,"  said  the  young  lady,  who  was 
carrying  a  basket.  "  But  he's  perfectly  well,  as  far  as  that  goes. 
.    .    .   You  go  on  first,  because  I've  got  my  hands  full." 

Fred  felt  it  was  safest  only  to  speak  on  what  arose  strictly 
from  his  question.  "  Glad  he's  all  right.  The  weather's  been 
trying,"  said  his  tongue.  But  his  mind  wanted  his  words  to 
imply : — "  With  the  best  of  good  wishes  for  your  father's  health, 
pray  understand  that  1  am  absorbed  in  this,  which  is  important." 
It — the  letter — vas  only  an  expression  of  the  sender's  ardent 
desire  to  lend  him,  if  not  a  minor,  ten  thousand  pounds  on  his 
own  security  in  the  strictest  confidence.  To  play  his  part  out, 
he  re-enveloped  and  pocketed  it.  '"  All  right,"  said  he.  '•  I'll 
go  on  in  front.     Is  my  mother  in  the  drawing-room?" 

"  I  left  hei  there,"  said  Nancy.  "  I've  been  for  the  kittens 
to  show  her."  She  raised  the  basket  lid,  accounting  for  small 
and  complex  sounds,  which  intensified.  "  Oh,  you  little 
darlings !  " 

"Kittens — are  there?  What  a  lark!"  His  manner  was 
nicely  adjusted  to  express  the  difference  between  his  interest  in 
kittens  carried  by  a  young  lady  to  whose  sister  he  was  fiance, 
and  one  to  whose  sister  he  was  not.  He  went  on  to  his  mother 
upstairs. 

She  was  going  to  be  a  wonderfully  handsome  old  lady,  cer- 
tainly ;  in  a  few  years,  be  it  understood !  Her  son,  acknowledg- 
ing the  beauty,  but  in  revolt  against  the  idea  that  his  mother 
could  ever  be  a  real  old  woman,  never  saw  her  without  saying 
something  like  this  to  himself.  But  he  had  not  risen  to  Miss 
Values's  standard  of  beauty  worship,  and  resented  the  share  that 
he  knew  pain  had  had  in  the  evolution  of  his  mother's. 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  309 

"  No  news,  I  suppose,  dear?  "  This  had  been  her  first  greet- 
ing to  him  alwa3's  for  eighteen  months  past  and  seemed  likely 
to  last  out  their  joint  lives.  He  shook  his  head  and  looked 
"  No,"  but  said  nothing.  He  had  to,  for  there  was  no  news. 
She  checked  a  sigh,  and  made  for  cheerful  speech.  Her  son  had 
been  at  The  Cedars  on  Sunday,  she  supposed?  ^Yere  they  both 
well?  How  was  the  baby?  The  baby  was  all  right,  Fred  testi- 
fied. At  least,  he  had  concluded  that  that  was  the  case,  having 
heard  nothing  to  the  contrary.  "  You  saw  it,  1  presume?  "  said 
his  mother.  Oh  yes — he  had  seen  it,  of  course !  Saw  it  the 
next  morning.  Charley  had  insisted.  But  did  not  its  mother 
insist  too?  asked  Mrs.  Carteret.  "  She  wasn't  very  urgent,"  said 
her  son.  "  You  see,  the  little  beggar  is  awfully  small,  and  too 
milky  to  be  safely  handled.  His  mother  is  rather  afraid  of  him 
— leaves  him  to  the  nurse.  He'll  be  a  lot  jollier  in  another  three 
months.     Charley  quite  admits  that." 

"  I  have  known  mothers  like  that,"  said  Mrs.  Carteret. 

"  It  isn't  want  of  affection,  you  know.  Charley  says  so.  It's 
idiosyncrasy."  Fred  felt  bound  to  prevent  any  misinterpreta- 
tion of  Lucy's  character,  and  rejoiced  to  have  Charley  on  his 
side. 

"  I  see,"  said  his  mother.  ''  It's  idiosyncrasy."  Then,  as  he 
looked  rather  unhappy  over  it,  she  said,  to  comfort  him : — "  It 
often  is  so.  But  they  come  all  right  in  the  end."  Fred  was 
sorry  to  have  handled  this  subject  of  the  baby  so  awkwardly, 
as  it  reflected  equivocally  on  its  mother — in  the  eyes  of  anyone 
who  did  not  know  her  as  well  as  he  did,  added  Fred.  He  had 
no  idea  of  the  length  and  breadth  of  his  own  incapacity  to  form 
a  judgment  in  this  case. 

The  story  feels  guilty  on  the  subject  of  this  baby,  as  it  cannot 
recall  to  mind  having  referred  to  it.  Why  could  it  not  wake  up 
and  do  a  little  self-assertion?  No  narrative  could  have  omitted 
that. 

\Mien,  a  few  minutes  later,  Nancy  followed  him  into  the 
drawing-room,  saying : — "  Sorry  to  interrupt  you,  but  the  cat 
says  you  must  look  at  them,  dear,  now  they've  come  up,"  Fred 
resented  the  context  of  events,  and  was  inclined  to  ignore  those 
kittens,  and  the  two  ladies'  appreciation  of  them;  especially  the 
younger  one's,  which  was  fatuity.  "  Their  mummy  sits  on  them 
like  a  fur  lid,"  said  she,  "  and  their  ducky  little  noses  come 
popping  out."  The  cat  gladly  gave  a  resume  of  this  perform- 
ance, and  appeared  to  accept  the  comments  of  the  public  on  her 
preposterous  vanity  as  praise.     It  had  its  melancholy  side,  in  its 


310  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

profound  unconsciousness  that  three  kittens  out  of  the  five  were 
then  and  there  condemned  to  death.  "'  I'm  sorry  you  must  have 
them  drowned,  dear/'  said  Nancy.  "  But  I  admit  the  necessity. 
And  those  three  are  the  most  plebeian."  An  attempt  was  made 
to  introduce  them  to  Society,  but  their  mother  seized  them  by 
the  throat  and  dragged  them  back  into  retirement.  "Oh,  very 
well !  "  said  Nancy.  "  If  you  are  going  to  be  disagreeable  and 
exclusive,  it's  time  you  went  back  into  the  cupboard."  And 
they  went. 

"  I  thought  you  were  so  fond  of  young  creatures,  Fred,"  said 
Mrs.  Carteret  when  the  young  lady  had  vanished  with  the  basket, 
very  incidentally. 

"  Puppies  p'r'aps !  "  said  Fred,  equally  so.  "  Never  was  so 
specially  fond  of  kittens." 

"Have  you  had  tea,  Fred?"  said  his  mother.  No — ^he 
hadn't.  Well,  then  if  he  would  ring  the  bell,  Jane  would  take 
the  pot  and  make  him  some  fresh.  But  he  declined,  saying  that 
what  was  left  in  the  pot  would  do  very  well  for  him.  She 
deprecated  this  course  as  needless,  and  said  Jane  had  nothing  to 
do.  He,  however,  had,  or  took,  his  own  way.  One  cup  seemed 
enough.     But  might  he  smoke  a  cigarette?     Certainly. 

He  had  come  to  stay  on,  so  there  was  no  need  to  hurry  talk; 
especially  as  Nancy,  who  was  going  back,  would  look  in  directly 
to  say  good-night.  Fred  was  aware  that  she  always  had  to  be  at 
home  on  Thursdays,  to  help  her  sister  and  stepmother  to  receive 
in  the  evenings.  So  that  was  his  most  convenient  evening  te 
give  his  mother,  as  a  fixture — without  prejudice  to  stray  inde- 
terminate occasions.  He  smoked  in  silence,  nursing  topics,  if 
any,  till  later. 

Nancy's  reappearance,  said  Mrs.  Carteret,  was  delayed,  prob- 
ably, by  the  need  for  pumping  up  a  tyre,  or  putting  oil  in  a 
lamp,  or  screwing  up  a  brake,  or  elevating  a  saddle,  or  some  such 
bicyclic  evolution.  Near  the  end  of  the  cigarette,  she  thought 
that  was  the  bicyclist  coming  now.  She  appeared  to  ponder  over 
something;  a  thing  to  be  remembered  or  a  course  to  be  taken. 
The  latter,  probably,  for  she  appeared  to  decide  on  one;  saying, 
as  she  looked  enquiringly  on  her  son: — "Has  she  told  you?" 
.   "Told  me  what?     No — she  has  told  me  nothing." 

"  Well — it's  not  bad  for  anybody,  that  I  know  of.  So  you 
needn't  look  scared.     Here  she  comes.     Ask  her." 

"  Ask  me  what  ? "  says  Nancy,  coming  in  at  the  door,  in 
bicycle  ienus.  "  Oh  yes — Cit  of  course !  I  left  it  for  you  to 
tell  him." 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  311 

"  Well— I  haven't  told  him.     You  do  !  " 

"  All  right.  Cit's  engaged  to  be  married  to  papa's  old  friend 
Dr.  Lomax.  He's  a  widower  with  four  children,  and  one  of 
them  has  necrosis  of  the  Joints,  or  some  such  game.  He's  not 
a  real  doctor,  onl}'  a  plii  dee.  They'll  be  married  in  the  summer 
when  Dr.  Lomax  gets  his  holida}'." 

Fred  took  this  piece  of  news  with  admirable  discipline. 
Where  was  the  need  for  any? — some  may  say.  All  the  answer 
the  story  can  give  is  to  ask  another  question : — "  How  shall  a 
man  who  has  at  one  time  clasped  in  his  arms  what  he  thought 
was  to  be  his  wife^  who  has  lived — though  but  for  a  few  months 
or  so — on  what  Maud's  lover  recognised  as  kisses  sweeter,  sweeter 
than  anything  on  earth;  who  has  thought  that  other  fellow 
horribly  presumptuous  for  daring  to  touch  that  sacred  glove — 
how  shall  such  a  man  be  able  to  endure  offhand  the  news  that 
someone  else  is  to  have  the  extended  enjoyment  of  what  was  his 
monopoly  ? 

That  is  exactly  what  Fred  did — endured  it  offhand.  And  the 
effort  was  creditable  to  him.  "  Lomax — Lomax — Lomax,"  said 
he,,  with  an  increasing  strength  on  the  first  syllable,  as  though 
he  knew  several  Highmaxes.  "  Didn't  I  meet  him  at  your 
father's — a — one  evening?  "  He  did  not  feel  equal  to  specifying 
the  occasion.  It  was  in  the  halcyon  days  at  the  outset  of  the 
engagement. 

"  I  expect  you  did,"  said  Nancy.  "  He's  not  a  bad  chap. 
Only  he's  rather  pink,  and  looks  as  if  he  had  been  stretched." 

"  Do  looks  matter?  "  said  Mrs.  Carteret.  And  Fred  felt  grate- 
ful to  her  for  speaking,  for  indeed  he  was  a  little  at  a  loss  what 
to  say.  Could  he  show  pleasure?  Could  he  show  pique? 
Neither  recommended  itself.  Could  he  say  he  had  heard  the 
gentleman  very  highly  spoken  of,  when  he  had  repeated  over  his 
name  in  that  doubtful  way?  He  couldn't  very  well  do  anything 
active.     So  he  remained  silent. 

"  Seems  they  don't !  "  said  Xancy,  answering  Mrs.  Carteret's 
question.  ""'  He's  a  Public  Analyst,  if  that  does  you  any  good. 
It  doesn't  me !  Good-night,  dear !  "  But  it  was  not  in  the 
nature  of  this  girl  to  accept  a  broken-off  trothplight  as  a  thing 
to  be  dumb  about,  like  a  death,  or  one's  stockings.  She  turned 
to  Fred  as  she  was  leaving  the  room,  and  said — with  dreadfully 
bad  taste,  the  story  admits :  "  Are  you  glad  or  sorry, 
Fred?" 

He  steered  cleverly  out  of  the  cross-currents.  "  I  wonder 
which ! "   said   he.      "  You   can   say   whichever   you   like,   you 


312  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

know."  And  tlien  Nancy  was  gone,  and  he  and  his  mother 
were  at  liberty  to  laugh  over  her  individuality. 

"  I  wish,"  said  Mrs.  Carteret,  as  a  corollary  to  this  incident, 
"  that  you  had  something  to  tell  me  about  yourself,  Fred.  But 
I  suppose  we  must  wait  for  that."  She  spoke  in  a  way  which 
may  have  been  invented  by  Nature  to  refer  to  projects  of  mar- 
riage, as  the  moment  one  hears  it  one  knows  what  it  is  about. 
It  is  always  about  Hymen,  proper ;  that  deity  never  being  other- 
wise, for  that  matter.  But  Fred  had  nothing  to  tell,  in  that 
connection;  his  own  fatuous  passion  being  hopeless  by  hypothesis, 
and  not  a  thing  to  be  talked  about,  even  to  his  mother. 

Besides,  Just  as  Mrs.  Carteret  was  thinking  of  making  this 
news  of  Cintra's  a  fulcrum  on  which  to  rest  a  lever  of  catechism 
about  her  son's  own  affairs,  in  comes  the  new  parlour  maid  Jane 
with  a  missive  on  a  salver,  and  an  intimation  that  its  source  or 
origin  is  waiting  for  an  answer.  The  answer  had  to  be  written, 
if  the  bearer  could  prolong  his  or  her  or  its  waiting  for  five 
minutes;  so  the  opportunity  was  lost.  And  as  its  purport  was 
that  the  writer  hoped  that  the  Rev.  Mr.  Somebody  would 
come  in  to  coffee  at  nine  o'clock,  and  dinner  was  by  this  time 
imminent,  no  real  chance  of  another  came  until  after  his  rev- 
erend departure.  It  was  near  eleven  o'clock  before  the  mother 
and  son  could  have  communication  to  themselves. 

Then  the  mother  tried  back  for  the  last  point  of  contact.  "  I 
suppose,"  she  said,  taking  the  maintenance  of  the  topic  in  both 
their  minds  for  granted,  "■  that  this  Mr.  Lomax  .  .  .  The  name 
is  Lomax,  isn't  it  ?  " 

"  Yes — Lomax."  Eather  censoriously,  as  if  a  much  better 
name  would  have  been  possible. 

"  I  suppose  this  Mr.  Lomax  has  a  good  official  salary.  What 
is  he?" 

"  Something  to  do  with  Inspection  of  Factories,  I  fancy.  He 
analyses  pickles  and  preserves,  and  detects  minute  quantities  of 
organic  poisons.  Oh  yes — I  should  say  he  was  good  for  a 
thousand  a  year.     Quite." 

"  I  wonder  whether  they'll  be  happy."  Mrs.  Carteret  waited 
for  a  comment. 

Fred  felt  he  would  have  been  glad  to  drag  Providence  in,  and 
leave  the  decision  in  His  hands.  But  it  would  have  seemed 
unlike  him,  to  his  mother.  So  he  let  it  alone,  and  said 
vaguely : — "  You  never  can  tell." 

"  I  am  glad  at  any  rate,  my  dear  boy,  that  you  didn't  rush 
away  in  a  fit  of  pique  and  propose  to  the  nearest  pretty  girl  that 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  313 

you  thought  would  have  you.  That's  what  very  often 
happens." 

"  Perhaps  I  did,  and  the  nearest  pretty  girl  wouldn't  have 
anything  to  say  to  me." 

"  Perhaps.     How  can  /  tell  ?  " 

"  I  can  tell,  dear  ^lother  mine.  Xothing  of  the  sort  took 
place,  nor  of  any  sort.  Cintra  and  I  .  .  .  Well ! — we  found  it 
wouldn't  work,  and  it  would  be  wisest  to  stop  it  off!  So  we 
stopped  it  off.     That's  the  story." 

"  I  see.  How  very  sensible  and  reasonable !  "  There  may 
have  been  some  equivalent  of : — "  If  you  are  going  to  talk  non- 
sense I  may  as  well  read  " — in  the  way  Mrs.  Carteret  took  up  a 
book  and  opened  it  nowhere  in  particular.  That  she  had  read 
none  of  it  was  clear  enough  from  what  she  said  two  minutes 
later,  as  she  closed  it  and  laid  it  down.  '"  Tell  me  the  real  story, 
dear  Fred !  Do  you  suppose  I  don't  know  that  there  is  a  real 
story?  There  must  be!"  Fred  kept  silence.  '"There  may 
have  been — somewhere — some  time  or  other — two  young  people 
as  prosaic  and  prudent  as  you  make  out  you  two  were.  But  I'm 
sure  he  wasn't  3'ou,  and  she  wasn't  Cintra."  Fred  looked  embar- 
rassed, but  still  said  nothing.  She  went  on: — "Do  you  know, 
my  dear — I  think  you  do  know,  for  I  fancy  I  said  something 
about  it — I  did  suspect  Cintra  of  ...  of  some  sort  of  unrea- 
sonable jealousy." 

Fred  kept  the  embarrassed  look,  but  tried  to  laugh,  not  over- 
suocessfull}'.     "  I  know  what  you  are  referring  to,"  said  he. 

"Well,  was  that  it?"  Her  eyes  were  watching  the  embar- 
rassed look. 

"  It  was — and  it  wasn't.  I  think  the  entire  unreasonableness 
of  it  contributed  to    .    .    ." 

"  To  what  ?  "     She  waited. 

"  To  mv  belief  that  we  should  never  agree,"  said  he  at  lengtli. 
^'  You  know,  ^lother  dear,  that  it  may  be  entirely  untrue  that  a 
groundless  fancy  of  this  sort  brought  about — the  result  that  we 
know  of.  But  all  the  same  it  might  have  a  very  strong  in- 
fluence.    It  had — on  me — the  unreasonableness  of  it." 

"  But  you  did  nothing — so  I  understand  ?  The  initiative  was 
Cintra's  ?  " 

"  Yes,  it  was,  to  all  appearance.  But  how  can  I  tell  that  she 
did  not  see  into  my  mind?  I  admit  that  I  was  nettled  at  tlie 
suggestion  that  I    .    .    .    However,  it's  no  use  talking  about  it." 

"  Would  it  not  be  more  use  talking  about  it  if  we  did  not  fight 
shy  of  the  main  point — did  not  speak  plainer,  in  fact?     AVas 


314  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

not  the  suggestion  that  nettled  vou  that  vou  admired  Lucy 
Hinchliffe?" 

Fred  was  very  uncomfortable,  and  flushed.  "■  The  suggestion, 
was/'  said  he,  "  that  my  admiration  for  Miss  Hinchliffe — for 
Charley's  wife,  that  is — which  is  one  that  is  shared  to  the  full 
by  all  her  friends,  was  .  .  .  was  of  a  sort  that  ..."  He 
hung  fire. 

She  finished  for  him.  "  That  was  incompatible  with  your 
sworn  fidelity  to  herself.  You  stupid  boy,  why  did  you  pay  any 
attention  to  her?  All  girls  behave  like  that.  It  only  means 
that  they  want  to  be  cosseted  over  a  little." 

"But  suppose  one  doesn't  feel  like  it?" 

"  I'm  afraid  that  goes  to  the  root  of  the  matter.  You  mean. 
in  short,  that  you  didn't  care  for  Cintra." 

"  You  are  very  unjust.  Mother  dear !     I  did  care  for  Cintra." 

"  Not  enough,  then  !  " 

"  Well — how  much  is  enough  ?  " 

"  Xo  love  that  wavers  the  least  is  enough.  Yours  was  not 
equal  to  the  test  that  all  girls  have  held  to  be  their  prerogative 
from  the  beginning  of  Time.  If  their  lovers,  when  called  on 
to  swear  that  they  are  incomparable,  hang  fire,  let  them  make 
no  further  pretence  of  love !  You  ought  to  have  pledged  your- 
self forthwith  to  Cintra's  greater  beauty — greater  than  Lucy 
Hinchliffe's — should  have  said  crystal  was  muddy  to  so  ripe  a 
glow,  and  so  forth.    ..." 

"  But  it  would  have  been  romantic  nonsense.  It  would  have 
been — suppose  we  say  ? — inaccurate." 

"  Fred — Fred !  It  is  inaccuracy  of  this  sort  a  girl  expects. 
An  accurate  lover  had  better  pack  up  and  go — unless  indeed  he 
is  pretty  sure  that  his  idol  has  Helen's  cheek  but  not  her  heart. 
Then  he  may  claim  mathematical  accurac3^  About  the  face,  at 
least.     Hearts  don't  matter  so  much." 

"  It  seems  to  me,"  said  Fred,  "  to  come  to  the  same  thing  in 
the  end.  Cintra  and  I  only  looked  a  fact  in  the  face.  You 
say  she  had  a  right  to  put  my  affection  for  her  to  this  test. 
I  daresay  she  had.  I  can't  pretend  to  know  what  rights  a  girl 
has  or  hasn't.  But  I  do  know  that  she  would  have  been  expect- 
ing me  to  talk  ridiculous  nonsense  if  she  had   ..." 

"  Had  expected  you  to  sing  her  praises  like  a  real  lover,  when 
you  were  only  a  half-hearted  one — is  that  it?"  Mrs.  Carteret 
had  formed  a  false  idea  of  the  lines  on  which  the  lovers  had 
fallen  out — thought  point-blank  jealousy  was  responsible.  Fred 
was  inclined  to  encourage  this  idea,  as  one  that  kept  the  subject 


THE  OLD  MADPIOUSE  315 

safer  for  discussion.  But  he  had  used  an  unguarded  phrase, 
and  his  mother  went  back  on  it  for  explanation.  "  I  can't  quite 
understand,  though,  why  you  say  '  would  have  been  expecting 
you.'  Wasn't  she?  Expecting  3-ou  to  disclaim  the  admiration 
for  this  other  young  lady  that  she  imputed  to  you,  I  mean  ?  " 

Fred  assumed  a  secretive  air.  "  It  didn't  work  exactly  that 
way,"  he  said,  speaking  in  a  dry  tone,  which  implied  that  further 
enquiry  was  not  invited. 

But  mothers  are  not  strangers,  bound  to  take  hints.  Mrs. 
Carteret  considered  the  position,  while  her  son  kept  his  lips 
ostentatiously  closed.  Presently  she  decided  to  say : — "  I  think 
you  had  better  tell  me  exactly  what  did  happen." 

Xow  that  Cintra's  third  finger  was  definitely  destined  to  wear 
a  wedding  ring  placed  on  it  by  another  man,  even  though  he  was 
a  pink  widower  with  four  children  who  looked  as  if  he  had  been 
stretched,  no  engineering  of  a  reconciliation  would  be  possible, 
say  what  Fred  might.  So  it  was  safe  for  him  to  say  after  a 
pause : — "  Perhaps  3fou're  right."  He  then  went  on  to  explain 
that  the  cause  of  the  rupture  of  relations  had  really  been  Cintra's 
absolute  refusal  to  go  on  with  the  scheme  of  The  Cedars;  or 
rather  the  ground  on  which  she  placed  this  refusal — that  of  a 
perfectly  unreasonable  and  violent  antipathy  to  the  lady  who 
was  affianced  to  his  oldest  and  dearest  friend,  and  whom  she  had 
barely  seen.  It  was  a  good  while  back  now,  he  said — a  year  and 
a  half,  wasn't  it? — but  his  mother  must  remember  that  Cintra 
and  Miss  Hinchliffe,  now  Mrs.  Snaith,  had  scarcely  spoken  on 
that  Sunday  when  they  came  to  lunch,  and  they  had  never  met 
since.  And  it  was  Cintra's  doing,  not  Lucy's.  At  least,  Cintra 
might  have  Vi-aitcd  for  completer  acquaintance. 

"  H'm  !  "  said  Mrs.  Carteret.    "  I  thought  it  was  then." 

"  Thought  what  was  then?  " 

"My  dear — the  ca^us  belli!  If  you  hadn't  been  such  a 
goose.   .    .    ." 

"  Why  was  I  a  goose  ?  " 

"  Well — if  you  could  have  contrived  a  little  ...  a  little 
politic  concealment  of  your  admiration  for  Mistress  Lucy  ..." 

"  I  say,  Mother,  come  now  !  " 

"  Don't  be  in  a  rage,  dear  boy !  I  know  it  was  all  quite  right 
and  perfectly  harmless.  But  if  you  had  had  the  common  sense 
to  exercise  a  little  self-repression — to  bottle  up,  in  fact — all 
might  have  been  well !  " 

Which  is  '  well '  ?     I  am  not  dissatisfied  with  things  as  they 


are." 


316  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

"  Then  there  is  no  more  to  be  said  on  the  matter.  I  hope 
Cintra  is  equally  satisfied." 

"I  hope  so.  Why  shouldn't  she  be?  It  was  her  choice,  you 
know — none  of  mine  !  " 

If  Mrs.  Carteret  had  expressed  the  thought  that  was  in  her 
mind — that  jealousy  is  one  of  the  signs  of  love — Fred  would 
have  felt  very  uncomfortable.  Perhaps  it  was  to  spare  him  self- 
questionings  that  she  held  her  tongue.  And,  after  all,  consider 
that  Analytical  Chemist !  To  what  end  should  she  supply  Fred 
with  food  for  regrets?  Even  if  her  son  had  not  been  so  philo- 
sophical over  it,  Destiny  could  not  hark  back  now.  So  she 
merely  said : — ''  I  think  I  might  have  felt  as  Cintra  did  about 
the  housekeeping.  Plans  of  that  sort  seldom  work  well.  Of 
course  if  the  house  had  been  halved,  that  would  have  made  a 
difference." 

"Would  it?" 

"  Well— wouldn't  it  ?  " 

"  I  should  say  not.  I  don't  think  Cintra  would  have  objected 
to  the  house  scheme  if  Miss  Hinchliffe's  .  .  .  personality  had 
been  different." 

"  If  she  hadn't  been  so  pretty — is  that  it  ?  " 

"  Something  of  that  sort.  I  think  it  is  just  possible  that  she 
had  formed  a  false  image  of  the  girl  Charley  Snaith  was  engaged 
to — bony  sort  of  female  with  fangs,  or  else  a  puddingy  one 
with  little  eyes.   ..." 

"  Neither  description  would  apply  to  i\Iiss  Hinchliffe,"  said 
Mrs.  Carteret  by  the  way,  but  not  as  though  she  expected  assent 
or  dissent. 

Fred  continued : — "  And  it  made  her  a  little  premature.  She 
and  El  .  .  .  she  and  her  sister  had^  I  suppose,  made  up  their 
minds  to  a  Mr.  and  ]\Irs.  Charley  in  keeping — as  the  artists  say 
— with  their  interpretation  of  Charley  himself.  Of  course  I 
know  what  tit  at  was." 

''  I'm  sure  that  Elbows — as  you  all  but  called  her — never  said 
a  word  against  Miss  Hinchliffe,  and  would  have  backed  up  the 
double  housekeeping  to  any  extent.  She's  a  dear  girl,  Nancy. 
In  fact,  the  dearest  of  girls;  but  the  moment  beauty  comes  into 
question,  she  becomes  simply  abject,  and  grovels.  She  got  quite 
idiotic  over  Miss  Hinchliffe." 

"  Isn't  she  equally  idiotic  over  Mrs.  Charles  Snaith  ?  " 

Mrs.  Carteret  gave  a  little  thought  to  this,  then  said,  as  one 
who  decides  a  well-weighed  consideration : — "  Perhaps  not  just 
lately.     At  least,  she  sticks  to  the  beauty,  but  has  rather  given 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  317 

in  on  the  point  of  its  owner's  .  .  .  well ! — perfection.  You 
see,  she  imputes  an2;elic  qualities  to  the  owners  of  beautiful  faces. 
And  then  she  gets  disappointed  when  she  finds  they  are 
human." 

To  take  an  interest  in  what  Nancy  thought,  was  infra  dig: 
Fred  judged  it  advisable  to  infuse  a  certain  amount  of  loftiness 
— a  disguise  of  curiosity,  in  fact — into  his  enquiry: — "  And  what 
is  the  evidence  of  humanity  Miss  Nancy  Fraser  has  discovered 
in  this  particular  case?" 

"  You  needn't  be  so  scornful,  Fred  dear !  I  think  it's  prob- 
ably all  nonsense.  Did  you  know  that  your  friend  Charles 
Snaith  was  next  of  kin  to  an  earldom?  " 

Fred  laughed  out.  "  No — that  indeed  I  didn't,  and  don't. 
But  if  anybody  has  said  so,  I  know  what  it  comes  from."  He 
gave  a  very  brief  and  imperfect  account  of  his  friend's  aristo- 
cratic connections,  pooh-poohing  the  idea  that  Charley  could 
ever,  short  of  a  miracle,  enjoy  the  satisfactions,  or  undergo  the 
miseries,  of  wearing  a  coronet.  "  Kill  half  the  family,"  said  he, 
"  and  of  course  Charley  would  have  a  chance.  But  there's  an 
heir,  fast  enough,  when  the  venerable  head  of  the  family  departs 
this  life.  He'll  be  a  centenarian  before  that  happens,  if  he 
doesn't  look  sharp.  And  what's  more  the  heir's  just  married. 
I  can't  be  certain,  but  my  recollection  is  rather  emphatic,  that 
Charley  told  me  he  was  married — just  lately." 

"  I  don't  think  it's  all  nonsense — not  quite  all.  What  is  the 
heir's  name?     Lord  Something  he's  got  to  be." 

''  It's  a  name  I  always  forget.     Honeyguts,  I  think." 

"  Nonsense,  Fred  !     It's  much  more  like  Chitterling." 

"  I  don't  consider  Honeyguts  a  bad  .shot  for  Chitterling,"  said 
Fred,  perversely.     "But  what  about  him,  whichever  he  is?" 

"  Lord  Chitterling,  who  is  seventy-four,  is  just  married  cer- 
tainly. But  he's  not  expected  to  live."  Further,  it  appeared 
that  this  marriage,  solemnised  by  the  bridegroom  on  what  was 
probably  his  deathbed,  was  a  ceremonial  that  ought  to  have  taken 
place  many  years  ago,  in  which  case  the  earldom  would  have  been 
well  provided  with  heirs,  who  were  now  in  danger  of  being 
twitted  with  their  illegitimacy  by  a  babe  as  yet  unborn;  which, 
if  it  turned  out  male,  would  inherit  a  rent-roll  in  two  or  three 
shires,  while  they  and  their  sisters  would  have  to  live  on  the 
borders  of  Society,  in  the  enjoyment  of  modest  competences. 

Fred's  curiosity  at  this  point  forced  him  to  climb  down  from 
his  lofty  superiority  to  Nancy's  views.  "  Yes,"  said  he,  when 
his  mother  had  ended,  "  but  what  I  want  to  get  at  is — what 

21 


318  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

has  Mrs.   Charles  got  to  do  with  this?      Why  does  El    .    .    . 
Avhy  does  Miss  Fraser  connect  her  with  it,  I  mean?  " 

"  Only  in  this  way.  .  .  .  It's  very  absurd,  you  know.  At 
least,  I  think  it's  absurd." 

"I've  no  doubt  I  shall,  too.  Cut  along!  How  does  Mrs. 
Charley  come  in  ?     That's  the  point." 

Mrs.  Carteret  seemed  to  find  her  explanation  more  difficult 
than  she  had  anticipated.  "  You  must  look  at  this,  you  know, 
by  the  light  of  Nancy's  absurd  antipathy  to  Mr.  Snaith's  nose. 
You  may  laugh,  Fred,  but  I'm  sure  that's  it." 

"  Just  as  like  as  not !  "  said  Fred.  "  But  you  haven't  told  me 
what  it  is  I'm  too  look  at." 

"  Well — I  suppose  I  must.  But  I'm  almost  sorry  now  I  began 
about  it.     It  seems  so  foolish." 

"  Get  on.     Fire  away !  " 

"  The  girl  has  got  it  into  her  crazy  pate  that  Mrs.  Charles 
Snaith  doesn't  care  a  straw  for  her  husband,  and  only  married 
him  on  the  chance  of  .  .  .  Well — you  see!"  The  lady  spoke 
these  words  with  a  blind  faith  in  the  Rectitudes  as  developed 
in  her  own  flesh  and  blood.  They  could  not  affect  her  son.  A 
worser,  more  astute  woman  would  at  least  have  looked  at  his  face 
to  see  how  he  took  them. 

As  it  was,  she  did  not  even  notice  the  uneasiness  of  his  con- 
temptuous laugh.  "  That's  what  Elbows  thinks,"  said  he,  not 
hesitating  over  the  disparaging  nickname  this  time.  "  Elbows 
had  better  shut  up."  His  mother  accepted  this  as  a  dismissal 
of  a  subject  too  absurd  for  discussion.  But  his  disquiet  would 
not  let  him  leave  it.  After  a  moment  or  two  he  said — but 
equably  enough : — "  I  wonder  what  put  that  rot  into  the  young 
woman's  head." 

"  Of  course  it  isn't  only  Mr.  Snaith's  nose.  I  wasn't  quite 
in  earnest  about  that."  So  Fred  had  understood.  His  mother 
continued : — "  Nancy  has  picked  up  the  idea  from  her  visits  at 
The  Cedars.     You  know  she  visits  her  friend  there?" 

Fred  had  not  met  her  there,  he  said.  But  he  was  there  chiefly 
in  the  evenings  and  early  mornings,  and  would  be  almost  sure 
to  miss  her.  He  seemed  a  little  puzzled  that  Mrs.  Charley 
should  not  have  referred  to  these  visits,  but  his  mother  accounted 
for  the  phenomenon.  "You  don't  liide  your  dislikes,  my  dear 
boy !  You  shouldn't  be  so  transparent.  Mrs.  Charley  knows 
you  hate  Nancy,  and  call  her  Elbows." 

"  I  call  her  Elbows,"  said  Fred,  "  because  Charley  nicknamed 
her  Elbows  the  same  evening  we  made  her  acquaintance."     He 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  319 

was  conscious  that  Memory  felt  raw  over  the  levival  of  this 
event  and  fidgeted  under  it,  dismissing  it  curtly  as  "  Mother 
Ladbroke  Square's  hop."  He  disclaimed  personal  dislike  of 
Nancy,  but  disallowed  her  as  unimportant.  What  did  it  matter 
what  impressions  so  insignificant  a  character  formed  of — of  any- 
thing or  anybody  ?  He  would  have  taken  anyone  but  his  mother 
to  task  for  treating  the  mutual  affection  of  his  married  friends 
as  a  legitimate  subject  of  discussion.  As  it  was,  the  case  was 
fully  met  by  his  repeating : — "•'  Elbows  had  better  shut  up." 

"  You  mustn't  run  away  with  the  idea,  Fred,"  said  Mrs. 
Carteret,  "  that  /  endorse  what  the  child  says  in  any  way. 
Because  she  is  a  child,  though  she's  twenty-three.  It's  the  sort  of 
idea  young  women  get  from  works  of  fiction.  Thank  Heaven ! — 
one  never  meets  the  people  in  novels  in  real  life." 

If  ever  woman  was  unconscious  of  the  effect  of  her  words,  it 
was  this  lady,  during  this  conversation.  When  her  son  changed 
the  subject  abruptly,  she  set  his  doing  so  down  to  a  mere  Avish 
to  make  short  work  of  a  thesis  too  ridiculous  for  discussion,  plus 
an  unwillingness  on  his  part  to  be  severe  on  her  informant,  in 
consideration  of  the  affection  he  knew  to  subsist  between  them. 
For  he  jumped  quite  suddenly  from  this  personal  conversation 
to  his  Anti-Vibration  Engine.  He  had  just  finished  his  full 
specification  of  the  patent  and  a  friend  was  going  to  introduce 
it  to  a  man  whose  hobby  was  new  inventions,  and  who  had  the 
rare  qualification  of  being  able  to  put  down  ten  thousand  pounds 
as  easily  as  not.  It  wouldn't  take  long  to  construct — and 
then  .  .  .  Well — then  let  Vibration  look  out !  His  hearer 
congratulated  him  warmly,  as  she  had  congratulated  him  on  a 
score  of  similar  great  successes  before.  Then  they  saw  that  it 
was  near  midnight,  and  went  upstairs  to  bed. 

Mrs.  Carteret  turned  on  the  first  landing  to  say  to  her  son : — 
"  Fred  dear,  you  mustn't  let  what  I  told  you  that  dear  silly  child 
said  make  you  uncomfortable.  It's  all  nonsense  together."  In 
reply  to  which  Fred  laughed  outright.  "  Oh — you  mean 
Elbows's  rot.  Yes — I  should  rather  think  it  was,"  and  wenr 
away  to  his  room  whistling  nonchalance  in  support  of  his 
declaration. 

But  his  night  was  not  to  be  a  restful  one.  How  shall  a  young 
man  be  at  rest  every  drop  of  whose  blood  has  been  insidiously 
poisoned  by  a  delirious  longing  for  a  woman  out  of  his  reach, 
when  his  only  salvation  against  himself  is  the  knowledge  that 
she  cannot  be  won  without  an  act  of  treachery  from  which  he 
recoils  heart  and  soul?     And  how  shall  that  salvation  keep  its 


320  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

power  over  him,  when  a  creeping  doubt  is  constantly  growing, 
growing,  in  his  mind  that  that  act  of  treachery  is  already  com- 
mitted ?  For  if  there  is  a  particle  of  truth  in  this  foolish  story 
of  that  confounded  girl — devil  take  her ! — who  can  say  that 
estrangement,  assuming  it  to  exist,  is  due  to  such  an  idiotic 
cause  as  Property  missing  the  right  pocket,  videlicet  our  own; 
an  elusive  Title  inherited  by  someone  else?  Much  more  likely, 
said  Fred's  innermost  thoughts  among  themselves,  much  more 
likely  than  that,  that  a  spark  from  the  fire  on  this  side  of  the 
hedse  should  have  set  a  heart  a  smouldering  on  the  other  side. 
But  then — how  about  Charley  ? 

In  the  darkness  of  the  night  and  the  loneliness,  Fred  felt 
towards  his  mother  the  nearest  feeling  of  anger  or  resentment 
against  her  of  which  he  was  capable.  \V\vdt  possessed  her  to  pass 
on  to  him  that  idiot  girl's  suggestion  that  Charles  and  Lucy  were 
less  than  innamoraii?  Why  cut  him  adrift  from  his  only 
anchora<re,  his  faith  in  their  affection  which  made  his  own 
passion  a  mere  aimless  madness?  A  torment — yes!  But  a 
torment  to  be  concealed  and  buried  with  him,  an  unsuspected 
disease  that  might  have  his  death  to  answer  for.  How  could 
he  tell? 

Anyhow,  why  need  mothers  think  their  sons  superhuman  ? 


CHAPTER  XXI 

It  must  not  be  supposed  that  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Klem,  or  Grewbeer 
more  properly,  allowed  the  extraordinar}'  disappearance  of  Dr. 
Carteret  to  be  forgotten.  In  fact,  as  time  went  on,  they  became 
more  than  ever  alive  to  his  non-reappearance ;  and  the  subject  be- 
came a  piece  de  resistance,  which  appeared  capable  of  indefinite 
examination.  Indeed,  there  did  not  seem  to  be  any  reason  why 
it  should  ever  be  exhausted,  seeing  that  one  element  of  its 
yitality  was  a  curious  property  it  had  of  presenting  itself  as 
d  propos  of  everything  else. 

Thus  the  handy  young  man  whom  the  story  has  seen  making 
himself  useful  on  a  door-lock  at  The  Cedars,  and  who  owed 
opportunities  for  extending  his  connection  to  its  ex-caretakers, 
said  to  them  on  the  occasion  of  his  suppression  of  a  partik'lar 
bad  gas-escape,  owin'  to  rats,  at  the  empty  house  which  was  the 
object  of  their  solicitude  at  present : — "  Speakin'  of  what  rats  is 
capable  in  the  way  of  biting  through  lead  pipin',  Mr.  Grewbeer, 
you  never  heard  no  more,  I  suppose,  of  that  old  cove  that 
varnished  ?  "  By  which  this  young  man,  whose  name  was  Ham- 
brose,  or  was  pronounced  so,  no  more  meant  that  he  knew  any  of 
Dr.  Carteret's  relations  with  rats,  than  that  the  Doctor  practised 
varnishing,  or  any  trade.  The  one  was  a  convention — an  easy 
channel  to  conduct  the  stream  of  discourse  through — the  other 
an  overstress  on  a  syllable,  to  indicate  perhaps  a  misgiving  that 
the  word  might  be  of  foreign  origin,  and  ought  to  be  handled 
with  caution. 

Mr.  Grewbeer  accepted  the  convention,  and  showed  a  sym- 
pathetic mistrust  of  the  word.  "  Varnished !  "  said  he.  "'  It 
ain't  for  the  likes  of  we  to  say  gentlefolks  has  varnished,  not  of 
their  own  accord.  But  I'll  give  you  this  much,  young  man,  that 
I've  heerd  tell  no  more  of  him  from  that  day  to  this.  Nor  I 
don't  believe  anyone  else  has." 

"  That's  what  they  said  in  the  noospapers.  'Cos  I  read  'em 
every  Sunday  morning.  Sunday  Times  and  the  Pink  'Un. 
Rev.  Doctor  Cartearet.  Same  story  in  both  of  'em.  Looks  as  if 
they'd  got  something  to  go  by." 

"  That's  no  account.  That's  on'y  how  they  backs  each  other 
up."     He  added  a  remark  to  the  effect  that  a  blood-stained  liar 

331 


322  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

was  a  blood-stained  liar  wherever  you  met  him.  This  seemed 
merely  the  expression  of  an  abstract  truth,  not  a  special  indict- 
ment of  the  Sunday  Press.  "  But  you've  got  the  name  wrong, 
so  I  don't  think  much  of  your  noospapers." 

"  Cartearet's  right." 

"  Cartearet's  wrong.  You  can  tell  your  noospaper  boy  the 
name's  Carter,  Eet.  And  he  may  just  go  home  and  tell  his 
guv'nor  I  said  so,  and  I  knows.  Why,  there's  my  missus ! — 
she'll  tell  you  the  same.  Warn't  she  sent  for  to  the  house  for  to 
recall  partic'lars  of  the  sarcumstances,  by  the  parties  that 
bought  the  premises  and  paid  for  'em,  square?"  Mr.  Grewbeer 
seemed  to  think  this  honourable  discharge  of  a  business  obliga- 
tion reinforced  his  pronunciation  of  the  name  under  discussion. 
He  shouted  at  the  old  woman  to  testify  to  the  accuracy  of  his 
report,  especially  as  to  one  of  its  phrases : — "  Sent  for  you  was, 
Alison,  for  to  recall  partic'lars  of  the  sarcumstances  attendin' 
the  Rev.  Drury  Carter  Ret,  on  the  occasion  of  his  bein' 
showed  over  these  here  premises  September  twelvemonth.  That's 
what  the  letter  said — so  just  you  up  and  speak  the  truth." 
Which  being  confirmed  by  the  woman — after  repetition  shouted; 
for  of  course  she  had  not  heard  a  word — her  husband  subsided, 
growling: — "There — what  did  I  tell  you?  You  might  just  as 
easy  have  said  so  the  first  go-off !  "  For  he  was  always  cen- 
sorious of  his  wife's  deafness,  which  certainly  exceeded  his  own, 
though  acknowledging  its  advantages  sometimes,  as  leaving  his 
choice  of  language  a  greater  latitude.  "  She  don't  ketch  expres- 
sions I  happen  to  use  "  was  his  way  of  putting  it. 

The  handy  young  man,  Hambrose,  being  as  it  were  free  of 
the  subject,  went  nearer  to  the  old  woman,  and  shouted: — 
"  Wrote  you  a  letter,  the  party  did  as  took  the  house — was  that 
the  game?  " 

Mrs.  Grewbeer  assented,  with  a  reservation.  "  You  might 
call  it  a  letter,"  she  said.  "  Only  mind  ye,  it  was  three- 
cornered." 

"  I've  seen  them,"  said  Hambrose.  "  Ladylike  sort  of  a  letter. 
But  it's  again  the  Regulations  to  send  them  by  post.  I  reckon 
it's  because  there  ain't  no  square  corners  for  the  stamp." 

Mr.  Grewbeer  contradicted  this.  "  Anythin'  you  can  shove 
in  at  the  Post  Orfice'll  go,  if  you  come  to  that.  Tork  of  goin  ! 
Only  the  P'int  is — will  they  deliver  it?  Not  they,  except  it's 
properly  stamped.  Wot  they  gain,  by  stickin'  out  for  a  hextry 
charge,  Goard  only  knows!  If  they  git  it,  all  right! — then  I 
don't  say  nothin'.     But  if  they  don't  git  it,  where  the  use  is  of 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  323 

carrin'  of  the  letter  back  is  what  disagrees  with  my  stum- 
mick." 

This  side-issue  was  disposed  of  by  his  wife.  "  There  wasn't 
no  postman,  nor  yet  any  stamp,"  said  she.  "  It  come  by  hand. 
Cox's  Caroline,  that  takes  in  The  Cedar's  washing,  she  kep'  it 
in  her  dress  pocket  for  next  time  she  come  this  way.  And  it 
wasn't  so  very  long,  in  the  manner  of  speaking."  Caretakers 
have  a  fine  perception  of  the  irrelevant,  and  make  a  point  of 
supplying  it  in  conversation. 

"  And  then  you  see  the  lady  at  the  premises?  " 

"  Because  I  went  there  by  appointment.  I  see  the  lady. 
'Ansum  she  is,  enough  to  make  you  call  out.  Only  I  reckonised 
I'd  seen  her  before.  She  come  to  the  house  when  we  had  charge, 
with  the  gentleman,  in  a  carriage.  He  was  one  of  them  two 
that  come  more  than  once.  I  understood  they  was  going  to  be 
married." 

"  I  never  heerd  'em  say  nothin'  o'  that."  Mr.  Grewheer,  on 
the  watch  to  contradict  his  wife,  or  anyone,  jumped  at  the  chance 
of  throwing  doubt  on  anything  she  said,  even  by  merely  negative 
testimony. 

"  Lard,  Grewheer !  "  was  the  old  woman's  comment  when  she 
heard  and  understood  his  words,  shouted  and  re-shouted.  "■  Who 
■do  you  think  was  going  to  be  sayin'  this  and  sayin'  that,  to  the 
likes  of  us,  when  it  was  no  concern  of  ours?  But  I  took  it  they 
was  sweet,  by  the  ways  of  'em.  .  .  .  Well — they  was  keeping 
company,  anyway  you  put  it.  One  don't  want  to  be  told  every- 
thing.    One  has  a  pair  of  heyes,  when  all's  said." 

"  What's  the  name  of  this  here  one  ?  "  . 

"  It's  wrote  at  the  end  of  the  letter.  I  giv'  it  you  to  read. 
A  name  with  a  hen  and  a  hess  in  it.  Oh.  .  .  .  Snaith ! — in 
•course,  it  was  Snaith." 

"  That  ain't  the  name  of  the  parties  that  bought  the  house. 
Much    more    like    Pinchquitch,   or    Splitchwink — some    such    a 


name." 


"  Garn,  Grewheer,  ye  old  silly !  It  was  this  lady's  mother 
bought  the  premises,  for  her  and  her  husband  to  orkupy.  So 
that  name  what  you  choose  to  call  her  by  was  her  maiden  name. 
I  heerd  her  say  it,  explainin'  to  me  how  she  come  to  send 
Cox's  Caroline  with  a  three-cornered  letter.  Says  she  to  me,  she 
says : — '  Before  I  married  Mr.  Snaith,  you  know,  my  name 
was  .  .  .'"  But  Mrs.  Grewheer  could  not  supply  the  name, 
and  had  to  stop.  She  made  a  trial,  but  could  get  no  nearer 
than  Fleshwinch;  an  improbable  name  outside  a  dream  about 


324  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

the  rack.  Her  husband  seemed  to  think  ho  had  been  much 
nearer  the  mark,  saying : — ''  Well — Splitchvvink  1  stands  by. 
Suppose  we  let  it  go  at  that !  " 

Now,  none  of  this  discussion  had  any  relation  to  the  handy 
young  man  Hambrosc's  interest  in  the  topic  of  Mrs.  Grewbeer's 
visit  to  The  Cedars,  which  was  to  arrire,  tortuously  if  a  direct 
approach  was  impossible,  at  something  on  which  he  could  hinge 
a  recommendation  of  his  own  deftness  to  the  tenants  thereof. 
He  therefore  endeavoured  to  bring  back  the  discussion  from  the 
onomatologies  into  which  it  had  strayed,  by  saying: — "  This  here 
lady  who  sent  for  you,  marm,  she  warn't  enquirin',  by  any 
chance,  for  a  young  man  who  could  turn  his  hand  to  most 
anything  you  could  put  a  name  to — plumbin',  carpenterin'  and 
jinin',  fittin',  gardenin',  wood-choppin',  tendin'  on  a  'oarse?  Or 
could  drive  a  motor  if  required."  Motors,  about  this  time,  were 
beginning  to  make  themselves  felt;  but  their  owners  had  not 
begun  to  disbelieve  in  professions  of  chauffeurship  by  young 
men  whose  only  qualification  was  a  pair  of  dirty  hands. 

Mrs.  Grewbeer  met  this  suggestion  with  a  Universal  Negative, 
to  which  the  dry  and  perfunctory  formula  of  the  Logicians  was 
passionless  milk-and-water.  The  lady,  she  said,  didn't  want  no 
young  man  for  to  do  nothing  for  her,  being  already  provided 
with  a  rare  plenty  of  specialists  in  each  department.  Moreover, 
The  Cedars  was  unlike  other  houses  in  one  respect,  that  it  never 
stood  in  want  of  any  repairs  at  all,  owing  to  the  unblemished 
reputation  of  the  builders  who  had  carried  out  the  alterations. 

At  this  point  Mr.  Grewbeer  became  impatient  of  the  way  in 
which  the  thread  of  the  conversation  got  lost.  "  There's  no 
holdin'  females  to  the  p'int,"  said  he.  "  They  gets  wornderin' 
off  after  this,  and  wornderin'  off  after  that,  till  ;t'd  take  a 
lawyer  to  say  which  end  you  was  uppermost.  .  .  .  What  was 
the  p'int?  Why — the  p'int  was,  what  did  this  here  lady  send 
for  parties  two  mile  off  to  talk  to  her  for,  as  if  she  was  the 
Hemperor  of  China?"  The  selection  of  this  monarch,  a  typical 
autocrat,  implied  that  the  action  of  this  lady  had  been  arbitrary, 
and  overbearing. 

"  She  giv'  me  plenty  to  eat,  anyhow,  Grewbeer.  Or  told  'em 
to  it,  in  the  kitchen,  which  is  all  one.  Likewise  a  cup  of  tea  and 
a  half  a  crown — two  cup  o'  tea  I  should  say — and  bread-and- 
butter.     So  you  ain't  got  nothin'  to  complain  of ! " 

"  ^^^lat  did  she  want  to  be  torkin'  to  you  at  all  for?"  He 
went  on,  under  his  breath,  to  indicate  the  universal  practice 
of  womankind : — "  Torkin' — torkin' — torkin'.      Always  torkin'. 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  325 

Nothing  but  tork,  all  day  long!     What  had  she  got  to  say  for 
herself,  missus?    That's  the  p'int." 

Thus  exhorted,  the  old  woman  concentrated  on  a  report  of 
what  had  actually  happened.  The  young  lady  of  The  Cedars 
had  not  behaved  like  the  Emperor  of  China,  but  had,  on  the 
contrary — though  this  was  by  implication,  no  European  having 
a  right  to  speak  positively  of  the  conduct  of  that  potentate  under 
such  very  hypothetical  circumstances — asked  Mrs.  Grewbeer  to 
set  down  after  her  walk.  An  auxiliary  cup  of  tea — without 
prejudice  to  later  developments — had  lubricated  intercourse. 
Mrs.  Snaith  had  wished  to  hear,  all  over  again,  the  story  of  Dr. 
Carteret's  visit  and  of  his  final  disappearance;  since  which,  as 
Mrs.  Grewbeer  knew,  he  had  never  been  seen  by  mortal  man, 
unless  some  mortal  man  was  keeping  testimony  back.  Mrs. 
Grewbeer  had  told  that  story,  like  she  done  afore,  and  not  put 
nothin'  in  hextra  for  to  fill  out.  Then  Mrs.  Snaith  she  asked, 
she  did,  comfortable-like,  what  really  ivas  Mrs.  Grewbeer's  idear 
about  that  young  boy's  'istory  how  he  never  seen  no  one  come 
out  of  the  house.  WTiereupon  Mrs.  Grewbeer  had  replied, 
vaguely,  that  boys  was  boys,  and  where  they  come  in  there  was 
no  sayin'.  Then  Mrs.  Snaith  says,  if  j\Ir.  Grewbeer  was  right 
— here  that  gentleman  interposed  to  say  that  in  course  he  was 
right;  you  might  put  your  money  on  that,  and  not  lose  a  tanner 
— this  boy,  being  naturally  a  liar,  had  affirmed  that  he  had  seen 
no  one  come  out  of  the  house,  which  being  naturally  a  lie,  must 
be  accepted  as  a  direct  proof  that  he  had  seen  someone  do  so. 
This  could  only  have  been  Dr.  Carteret ;  ergo  it  tuas  Dr.  Carteret. 
Mr.  Grewbeer  interjected  that  any  fool  with  half-a-head  on  his 
shoulders  could  see  that.  His  wife  went  on  to  say  that  the  young 
lady  had  again  asked  her,  serious-like,  what  she  really  believed, 
herself.  To  which  she  had  replied  that  it  wasn't  for  the  likes  of 
her,  at  her  time  of  life,  to  be  believing  and  disbelieving  things. 
Of  which  formula  of  evasion  she  seemed  proud. 

Then  it  appeared  further  that  the  young  lady  had  requested 
Mrs.  Grewbeer  to  repeat  her  story,  or  portions  of  it,  on  the 
actual  scene  of  its  enactment,  taking  her  first  to  the  foot  of 
the  large  staircase,  and  making  her  say,  partic'lar  like,  exactly 
which  side  of  the  stairs  the  Doctor  come  down.  Then  an  event- 
less recital  of  his  examination  of  sundry  front  rooms  in  the  more 
modern  part  of  the  house;  and  finally  the  corner  of  the  long 
passage  where  she  left  him,  to  answer  the  bell.  She  had  given 
Mrs.  Snaith  full  particulars  of  every  word  that  he  spoke,  his 
last  enquiry  relating  to  the  name  of  the  former  owner  of  the 


326  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

house,  the  authority  on  Insanity,  and  inventor  of  many  new 
forms  of  treatment.  Dr.  Aytcholt.  And  especially  of  how  he  had 
said  to  her: — "  Hadn't  you  better  answer  your  bell?  "  As  if  it 
mattered  to  a  minute ! 

This  version  of  the  old  woman's  story  has  taken  no  account 
of  sundry  interruptions  by  her  husband,  he  having  heard  the 
whole  of  it  before  more  than  once,  and  being  very  anxious  to 
catch  his  wife  contradicting  herself.  Their  only  importance  is 
due  to  the  fact  that  every  effort  he  made  in  that  direction  turned 
out  a  failure.  Which  looks  as  if  she  were  a  trustworthy 
witness. 

''  But,  my  word !  "  said  she  in  conclusion,  chiefly  to  impress 
the  handy  young  man.  "  You  should  see  the  beautiful  place 
they've  made  of  it !  "What  with  hamphilopsisses  in  tubs  and 
cherokeets  in  cages,  that  long  passage  leadin'  up  to  the  green'us 
is,  you  might  say,  'Eaven  itself."  The  story  has  not  the  dimmest 
idea  what  Mrs.  Grewbeer's  botanical  name  was  founded  on,  but 
supposes  Cherubin  and  Cherokee  Indians  to  be  equally  responsible 
for  the  name  she  gave  Mrs.  Snaith's  parrakeets. 

The  handy  young  man  professed  some  interest,  but  a  perfunc- 
tory one,  in  the  changes  at  The  Cedars  which  his  handiness 
had  had  no  share  in.  He  had,  in  fact — now  that  professional 
advancement  had  waned — only  been  waiting  till  a  full  stop  to 
the  narrative  should  make  an  opening  for  his  departure.  He 
responded,  however,  civilly,  to  Mrs.  Grewbeer's  excursion  into 
Botany  and  Ornithology,  saying: — ''You  carn't  never  say  what 
these  here  toffs  won't  do  with  their  money."  He  then  remem- 
hered  that  he  was  doo  on  a  job,  and  took  his  leave. 

The  old  couple  remained  silent  for  awhile.  Then  Mr.  Grew- 
beer,  Avho  had  been  casting  about  in  his  mind  for  a  censure  to 
pronounce  on  his  wife,  appeared  to  find  one.  "  AVhor  d'yer  want 
to  be  setting  that  young  jackanapes  a  forking  about  what  ain't 
no  concern  of  his'n  ?  "  said  he. 

This  caused  more  than  one  interrogatory  "Hay?"  from 
the  old  woman.  But  explanation  reached  her  mind  in  the  end, 
and  she  replied : — "'  It's  every  bit  as  much  his  concern  as  it  is 
yours  or  mine.     Likewise,  I  kep'  back." 

"What  was  it  you  kep'  back?" 

"  Nothin'  much  when  you  come  to  think  on  it.  Only  a  idear'd 
got  hold  of  the  young  lady." 

"  You  never  told  me  nothin'  about  no  idear." 

"  Nor  yet  I  don't  know  that  I  shall."  There  is  no  greater 
satisfaction  than  that  of  whetting  curiosity,  especially  when  one 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  327 

has  something  to  conceal.  When  the  reverse  is  the  case,  a  sense 
of  insecurity  vitiates  a  complete  enjoyment  of  the  position. 

Mr.  Grewbeer  affected  indifference.  That  is  the  safest  atti- 
tude to  assume,  but  it  requires  a  consummate  actor.  His  "  You 
can  soote  yourself  "  was  good  as  far  as  it  went.  But  an  im- 
passive negative  demeanour  should  have  followed  it.  Active 
indifference,  in  any  form,  is  a  mistake.  Even  whistling  or  hum- 
ming should  be  avoided.  Instead  of  acting  in  harmony  with 
these  precepts,  Mr.  Grewbeer  spoiled  his  case  by  suddenly  ex- 
claiming a  moment  or  two  later : — "  As  if  I  cared  threepence  for 
anyone's  idears !  "  This  is  bowdlerised,  he  having  qualified  the 
sum  he  specified  as  one  that  a  cut  finger  might  have  handled. 
A  discreet  silence  would  have  been  better,  and  he  certainly 
should  not  have  snapped  his  fingers. 

"  Lard,  Benjamin !  "  said  the  old  woman.  "  'Ark  at  your 
language !  As  if  I  wasn't  a  tellin'  of  yer !  "  She  then  pro- 
ceeded to  take  him  into  her  confidence,  describing  how,  when  she 
had  again  gone  over  full  particulars  of  Dr.  Carteret's  deport- 
ment at  the  entrance  to  the  long  passage,  her  hostess  had  took 
on  a  kind  of  skeery  look — only  she  kep'  'andsome  all  along — 
and  walked  her  all  down  the  passage  right  to  the  end,  saying 
ne'er  a  word.     Here  the  narrator  paused. 

"  And  what  come  of  it  all?  "  said  her  husband.  "  I  don't  see 
nothing  in  any  of  that." 

"  Don't  you  'urry  me,  Benjamin'!  I  can't  abide  to  be  drove. 
So  soon  as  ever  she  got  me  clost  up  to  the  green'us  door,  round 
she  turns  and  points  all  down  the  passage,  towards  the  house. 
Then  she  says : — '  Was  he  where  we  should  see  him  now  ?  '  she 
says.  '  Yes,'  I  says,  '  just  as  in  the  hangle  of  the  wall,  'andling 
his  comforter,  'cos  for  the  chill  of  the  evening.'  So  then  she 
fiays : — '  With  his  back  to  us  now  ?  '  she  says.  And  I  says : — 
"^  Yes,*  I  says,  '  only  then  there  warn't  nobody  behind  his  back.' 
Then  she  says : — '  In  course,'  she  says,  '  me  and  my  husband  was 
behind  the  other  old  gentleman's.'  Says  I : — '  What  old  gentle- 
man's?'  "  The  speaker's  delivery  of  this  laid  claim  to  an  almost 
convulsive  accuracy,  and  made  the  hearer  aware  that  close  atten- 
tion was  expected  of  him. 

"  Who  was  the  party  spoke  of  ?  "  said  he.  "  There  warn't  any 
other  old  gentleman." 

"  There's  where  it  was,  Grewbeer.  There  warn't  any  other 
old  gentleman.     Only,  the  lady  she  sticks  to  it  there  was." 

*'  Who  did  she  put  him  down  for  to  be  ?  Summun  or  other, 
she  must  have  took  him  for !  " 


328  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

"  Just  what  I  made  bold  to  say  to  her.  And  she  turns  round 
to  me  quite  unconsciouslike,  and  says  '  Why,  in  coorse/  she  says, 
*  he  was  with  the  other  parties  goin'  over  the  premises.'  So  I 
giv'  my  assurance  there  was  no  sich,  that  day.  Or  if  there 
was,  I'd  never  let  'em  in.  Nor  yet  my  old  man;  or  if  he'd 
'a  done  so,  I  couldn't  have  been  off  seeing  of  'em — let  alone 
voices  in  an  empty  house,  soundin'  all  over  the  place." 
The  old  woman  stopped  and  waited  for  her  husband's  com- 
ment. 

It  came  after  visible  retrospection.  '"  No  one  come  anigh  the 
house  that  day,"  said  he,  very  decisively.  "  I'd  'a  seen  'em  if 
they  had.  On  a  Sunday  it  was  them  two  came,  in  a  brougham. 
I  was  bound  to  be  at  home  all  day."  This  did  not  refer  to  any 
bond  or  treaty.  It  only  meant  that  Mr.  Grewbeer's  anchorage 
in  port  on  Sundays  was  a  very  binding  one.  The  story  has 
seen  something  of  the  way  he  spent  Saturday,  and  feels  no 
surprise. 

"  Just  the  very  selfsame  words  I  said  to  the  lady.  My  hus- 
band was  bound,  I  says,  to  be  at  home  that  day  you  come,  bein' 
it  was  Sunday,  and  he'll  know,  seein'  he  takes  account  of  all 
})arties  as  come  to  see  the  premises;  though,  as  may  'eppen,  he 
don't  show  'em  over."  Mrs.  Grewbeer's  reference  to  Sunday 
seemed  to  point  vaguely  to  some  obligation  her  husband  was 
under  to — suppose  Ave  say  ? — the  Archbishop  of  Canterbury.  No 
doubt  Mrs.  Snaith  had  accepted  it  as  conferring  a  halo  of 
respectability,  without  close  analysis  of  it. 

Mr.  Grewbeer  wanted  to  know  what  followed,  but  he  did  not 
want  to  compromise  his  dignity  by  asking  for  it.  He  chose  a 
middle  course.  "It's  time  I  was  at  the  Six  Bells,"  said  he, 
"for  to  meet  a  party  by  the  name  of  Jennins  I  promised  to. 
So  you  better  look  alive  afore  I'm  off.  This  here  lady,  what 
did  "she  say  upon  that?  You  said  no  one  else  was  about  the 
house — warn't  it  ?  " 

"  I  said  no  one  else  was  about  the  house,  barring  you  and  me 
and  him  and  her,  nor  yet  hadn't  been  all  day.  Then  she  says  :— 
'Are  you  sure?'  saj^s  she.  'Safe  sure,'  says  I.  'Then  all  I 
can  say  is  it's  mighty  queer ! '  says  she.  And  she  gits  a  sort 
of  hagitated  look  as  if  took  with  a  flurry.  '  I  wish  I  knew  what 
to  make  of  it,'  she  says.  Then,  to  pour  hile  over  her,  as  you 
might  Gay,  I  says  I  was  mistook,  and  some  party  had  got  in  by 
a  mistake." 

"  I  shouldn't  'a  thought  you'd  'a  had  the  sense  to  it,"  said  the 
old  man,  growling  to  himself.     Then  audibly :—"  In  course  it 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  329 

was  just  heyesight  and  nothing  else,  and  she  never  saw  no  party 
at  all.   .    .    .   Time  I  was  off !  " 

"  You  come  back  from  them  Bells  time  enough  for  your 
supper,  Benjamin.  And  not  the  worse !  "  To  which  the  old 
reprobate  answered,  briefly : — "  You  mind  your  own  consarns !  " 
His  wife  turned  her  attention  to  cooking  the  supper,  repeating 
to  herself : — "'  Jennins — Jennins — Jennins !  He  don't  know  no- 
body by  the  name  of  Jennins.  Xor  yet  he  ain't  likely  to,  that 
I  can  see !      But  his  'eart's  good,  that's  one  comfort." 

Mrs.  Grewbeer  had  a  touching  faith  in  the  intrinsic  excellence 
of  her  husband.  His  material  and  audible  manifestations  were 
those  of  a  selfish  and  dissolute  old  man,  but  she  had  a  mysterious 
insight  into  his  inner  soul,  and  saw  that  it  was  good,  in  some 
unexplored  hinterland  of  entity.  She  called  it  his  Heart,  but 
that  was  mere  metaphor. 

This  short  intrusion  into  domestic  life  was  made  by  the  story 
to  obtain  at  first  hand  Mrs.  Grewbeer's  report  of  her  interview 
with  young  Mrs.  Snaith ;  who,  as  it  appears,  had  availed  herself 
of  the  means  of  communication  supplied  by  the  Wash,  to  procure 
this  interview,  after  deciding  that  it  would  be  most  fruitful  of 
result  if  the  old  woman's  recollection  of  Dr.  Carteret's  last 
appearance  to  human  eyes  was  repeated  to  her  on  the  spot  of  its 
actual  occurrence.  It  is  interesting  to  notice  how  the  character 
— almost — of  an  Abstraction  which  the  Wash  presents  to  its 
clients  vanishes  when  seen  from  the  point  of  view  of  its  own 
circle.  So  much  depends  on  which  side  we  see  things  from.  In 
the  e3'es  of  Mrs.  Grewbeer  the  Wash  was  Cox's  Caroline,  and 
the  mission  entrusted  to  her  as  an  agency  had  been  fulfilled  by 
her — according  to  Mr.  Grewbeer — as  a  Young  Slut.  He  had 
added  his  belief  that  it  warn't  difficult  to  foretell  the  destiny 
of  that  Slut. 

As  it  chanced,  no  one  but  Mrs.  Charles  Snaith  herself  was  in 
the  house — except  of  course  sundry  domestics — when  Mrs.  Grew- 
beer answered  this  summons;  so  there  was  no  one  to  notice  the 
effect  the  interview  had  upon  her.  It  was,  however,  probably 
responsible  for  a  taciturnity  of  which  her  husband  complained 
next  day,  at  lunch  with  Fred  Carteret  at  the  restaurant  they 
affected  at  this  time  in  Holborn.  "  Luce  has  got  tlie  blues,"  was 
his  reply  to  an  enquiry  from  his  friend  as  soon  as  instructions 
to  the  waiter  were  ended.  "  Hadn't  half-a-word  to  throw  at 
her  devoted  husband  all  last  night,  except  to  blow  him  up 
because  the  new  door  wasn't  put  in  hand.  Can't  you  stimulate 
the  building  miscreant,  dear  boy  ?    .    .    .    What's  that!" 


330  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

Fred's  wits  had  wool-gathered  for  a  moment.  He  produced 
the  crop.  "  A  ...  it  wasn't  applicable — what  I  was  going  to 
say,"  said  he.    "  Sort  of  plausibility  about  it,  though !  " 

"  What  were  you  going  to  say  ?  " 

"  That  the  mills  of  God  ground  slowly,  but  they  ground 
exceeding  small." 

"  And  the  plausibility  ?     Explain." 

"  Well — the  idea  was  that  Simcoxes  took  a  jolly  long  time  to 
find  an  old  mahogany  door,  but  it  would  be  sure  to  be  a  beauty 
in  the  end." 

"  Don't  see  the  connection  of  ideas.  Suppose  we  chuck  meta- 
phor. .  .  .  All  right — whitebait  for  both !  "  The  waiter  had 
come  back  to  say  the  whitebait  was  still  on  draught. 

Fred  threw  away  the  wool-crop.  "  By  all  means  chuck  meta- 
phor. What  I  mean  is,  where's  the  sense  of  starting  the  job 
till  we've  got  the  door?  The  only  consequence  would  be  that  a 
perfect  door,  just  too  large  or  too  small,  would  turn  up  a  day 
too  late.  That  would  happen  equally  whatever  size  we  made  the 
framing.  Whereas,  if  we  start  from  the  door,  we  shall  get 
round  Fate — spoil  her  fun.  I  really  believe  Destiny  gets  more 
gratification  for  her  naturally  spiteful  disposition  ..." 

"  Shut  up,  and  help  yourself  to  whitebait.  .  .  .  No,  really, 
when  are  they  going  to  fix  up  that  door?  " 

"  They  won't  be  long  now.  Next  week  they  are  doing  some 
alterations  at  a  jolly  old  house  in  St.  Anne's  Gate,  and  they'll 
have  a  splendid  old  door  on  their  hands — a  ripper !  Panelling 
to  make  your  mouth  water !  " 

"  Well — of  course  we  had  better  have  a  nice  door  than  a  nasty 
one.  But  hurry  'em  up — that's  a  dear  boy !  Of  course  it's  a 
little  queer  of  Luce  to  get  such  a  fancy  over  that  passage.  .  .  . 
Oh  no — I'm  making  every  allowance  for  nerves  and  health  and 
that  sort  of  thing.  .  .  .  But  what  I  look  at  is  that  there's 
nothing  underneath  it;  no  backbone  exactly."  Charles  was 
brought  up  short  by  fear  of  giving  pain. 

It  was  needless.  Fred  was  not  afraid  of  the  subject.  ''  You 
mean,"  he  said,  "  that  the  mere  accident  of  my  uncle  having 
been  seen  on  the  spot,  just  before  he  started  for  Wimbledon, 
hardly — hardly  individnalises  the  place  enough  to  justify  .  .  . 
creepiness  about  it?     You  see  what  I  mean?" 

"  Perfectly.  That  exactly  puts  the  case.  .  .  .  You  haven't 
got  enough  lemon.  The  idiots  always  chop  the  lemon  up  too 
small,  and  one  squeezes  it  over  one's  fingers  and  none  goes  on 
the  fish.    .    .    .   But  it's  impossible  to  reason  about  nerves.     If 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  331 

your  mother  got  what  they  call  a  scunner^  in  the  north,  over 
your  garden  gate,  because  he  went  out  at  it,  I  shouldn't  under- 
stand it  myself.     But  I  shouldn't  feel  the  least  surprise." 

"  You  know,  Charley,  my  dear  mother  isn't  exactly  .  .  . 
logical  over  it.     I  told  you  about  the  dream  ?  " 

Charley  said  absently : — "  Yes — you  told  me  about  the  dream," 
and  Fred  classed  his  absence  as  a  form  of  assent  to  the  laxity 
of  logic  ascribed  to  Mrs.  Carteret.  He  was  wrong,  however;  for 
Charley  said — after  an  exhortation  to  him  to  help  to  finish  the 
whitebait : — "  I'm  not  so  sure  though  about  the  logic." 

"  She  admits  that  it  ivas  a  dream,  you  know,"  Fred  advanced 
doubtfully. 

"  When  did  she  dream  it?     That  seems  to  me  to  be  the  point." 

"  Immediately  after.  I  mean  on  the  Saturday  night — morn- 
ing of  Sunday." 

"  When  did  she  tell  you  of  it?  "  Fred  had  to  think  this  over. 
For  remember — at  the  time  of  this  conversation  its  topic  was 
no  affair  of  yesterday.  A  year  and  a  half  had  passed.  "  I  see," 
Charles  continued,  "  that  it  wasn't  next  day,  or  you  would 
say  so." 

"  No — it  wasn't  next  day,  but  later.  It  was  after  .  .  .  after 
I  last  saw  Cintra  Fraser.  I  remember  that,  because  I  recollect 
not  knowing  anything  about  it  .  .  .  somewhere  about  that 
time." 

"  Don't  understand.  How  does  one  recollect  not  knowing  any- 
thing about  a  thing?  " 

"  Well — one  does !  You  and  your  legal  mind !  You  want 
everything  cut  and  dried  to  order.  No  really,  old  chap,  I'm  in 
earnest.  I  quite  distinctly  remember  that  when  I  was  enquiring 
about  the  man  that  was  drowned  at  Flinders's  ]\Iill,  I  knew  noth- 
ing whatever  about  my  mother's  dream.  And  that  was  the 
morning  after  Miss  Cintra  Fraser  and  your  humble  servant 
decided  to   .    .    ." 

"  To  cancel  articles  of  partnership.  All  right  about  the  dates. 
Well — it  makes  all  the  difference.  I  was  disposed  to  defend 
your  mother's  position  about  the  dream  ;  but  if  she  didn't  men- 
tion the  thing  at  the  time,  of  course  the  incident  loses 
force." 

"  All  the  same,  she's  quite  convinced  herself.  Only  I  don't 
know  that  she  expects  everyone  else  to  be." 

"  Not  like  my  missus.  .  .  .  What  are  you  having?  Cold 
chicken?  No — I  won't  have  cold  chicken.  .  .  .  Hot  roast 
lamb,    James.   ..."      Having    disposed    of    the    waiter,    Mr. 


332  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

Charley  went  back  to  the  previous  question,  but  got  no  farther 
than : — "  She  expects  everyone  else   ..."  and  stopped. 

''  What  does  she  expect  everyone  else  to  be  convinced  of?  " 

"Lucy?  Oh,  Lucy  expects  me  to  believe  she  sees  an  Arch- 
bishop strutting  about  the  house.  Of  course  one  knows  what  he 
comes  from." 

"No.     What?" 

Charley  felt  somewhat  disconcerted  at  Fred  not  taking  his 
"  of  course  "  as  obvious,  because  he  did  not  want  this  reference 
to  Dr.  Carteret's  last  appearance  to  top  the  conversation.  The 
subject  was  painful.  So  he  sought  for  some  way  of  explaining 
his  meaning  without  direct  reference  to  it.  "  Well !  "  he  said. 
"  You  know  she  got  at  the  old  woman  that  was  in  the  house  at 
the  time?  " 

"  Mrs.  Klem.     I  know." 

"  She  made  her  repeat  the  whole  story  again.  And  now  it's 
got  on  her  nerves,  and  she  has  all  sorts  of  fancies." 

"Well— but— what?" 

"  Sheer  nonsense — not  worth  repeating."  Charley  dismissed 
the  subject,  and  manifestly  intended  to  talk  of  something  else, 
as  soon  as  he  had  selected  a  topic.  But  his  pause  gave  the  dis- 
missed subject  a  chance  to  recrudesce.  "  P'r'aps  though  I  may 
as  well  tell  you,"  said  he.  "  Don't  see  that  it  makes  any  dif- 
ference !  "  He  then  went  on  to  tell  how  that  Mrs.  Klem's  repe- 
tition of  her  testimony  had  produced  so  powerful  an  effect  upon 
her  hearer  that  the  latter  had  contrived  to  see,  on  the  very 
spot  where  Dr.  Carteret  had  been  seen,  an  elderly  clerical  gentle- 
man who  turned  and  walked  away  down  the  passage;  an  evident 
result,  according  to  the  narrator,  of  Mrs.  Grewbeer's  conviction 
that  the  Doctor  must  have  got  out  of  the  house  through  the 
greenhouse,  as  there  was  no  other  way  out  except  the  front  door, 
which  investigation  had  already  disposed  of.  Also  how  that  the 
palpably  hallucinate  character  of  all  this  was  as  good  as  proved 
by  the  close  resemblance  of  this  clerical  gentleman  to  a  person 
who  had  been  inspecting  the  premises  when  he  and  his  wife — 
then  his  fiancee — had  first  visited  them.  She  had,  of  course, 
never  seen  Dr.  Carteret,  and  this  chap,  being  some  similar  sort, 
of  person,  had  evidently  got  mixed  up  with  him. 

"  What  sort  of  looking  chap  was  he?  "  interposed  Fred  at  this 
point.     "  Perhaps  he  was  like  my  uncle?     Same  size,  anyhow!  " 

**  What  size  was  your  uncle?     Big  man,  as  I  recollect  him  at 
school." 

"  Very  big.     Weighed  twenty  stone." 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  333 

"  So  I  thought.  I  hadn't  SGcn  him  since  those  days,  and 
thought  he  might  have  fined  down  a  bit.'' 

"  Oh  dear  no !     The  other  way,  if  anything." 

"  Well — that  settles  the  matter.  You  see,  this  man  was  very 
big,  and  happened  to  be  a  parson,  as  it  chanced.  Most  likely 
Luce  had  seen  a  photograph  of  the  Doctor.  Anyhow,  she's 
cooked  up  an  image  of  him.  It  began  with  that  chap  though. 
I  recollect  her  describing  him." 

Fred  must  have  had  misgivings  as  to  how  far  selection  of 
facts  to  be  guided  by  was  legitimate,  even  when  they  related  to 
"phenomena";  for  he  said: — "But  I  say,  Charley,  let's  be  fair 
to  the  caretakers.  Remember  that  both  deny  anyone  else  was 
in  the  house  at  the  time." 

"  Don't  think  much  of  their  testimony !  "  said  Charley,  easily. 
In  which  he  was  only  following  a  time-honoured  usage — that  of 
rejecting  all  witnesses  but  those  who  testify  to  the  truth  of  what 
we  want.  "  Anyhow,  old  chap,  do  make  them  look  alive 
with  that  door."  And  then  they  talked  about  something 
else. 

Fred  fought  shy,  for  some  reason  he  could  not  define,  of  trying 
for  first-hand  information  about  Mrs.  Charley's  interview  with 
Mrs.  Klem,  and  the  eerie  fancies  her  husband  imputed  to  her. 
Perhaps  it  was  that  it  was  impossible  to  approach  the  subject 
otherwise  than  seriously;  and  to  do  this  without  seeming  to 
attach  too  much  importance  to  a  mere  hallucination  was  just 
as  impossible,  or  more  so.  If  he  could  have  brought  the  inci- 
dent into  line  with  any  accredited  ghost  story  it  would  have  been 
easier  to  contemplate  it  as  matter  for  discussion;  but  how  could 
he  refer  to  such  a  phantasy  otherwise  than  jocularly?  Consider 
dignity !  Are  we  not  all  committed  to  derision  of  suchlike 
legends — when  men?  Women  are  at  liberty  to  discuss  them 
seriously.  But  in  what  spirit  of  enquiry  could  Fred  approach 
this  one?  As  matter  for  derision;  a  good  joke?  Surely  not! — 
for,  consider  his  uncle's  memory.  Seriously,  then? — with  the 
seriousness  that  memory  demanded  ?     Perfectly  ridiculous ! 

So  he  held  his  tongue,  and  the  mahogany  door,  which  appeared 
before  midsummer,  was  generally  accepted  as  an  outcrop  of  the 
higher  ajsthesis;  a  decorative  aftermath  of  the  embellishments 
of  the  mansion.  Its  connection  with  the  nervous  fancies  of  that 
mansion's  beautiful  mistress  was  known  only  to  her  husband  and 
his  friend. 

It  was  to  all  appearance  complete  and  in  its  place  on  a 
Wednesday.     To  the  unprofessional  eye  nothing  was  left  to  be 

22 


334  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

done.  A  higher  discrimination  on  the  part  of  the  foreman  on 
the  job  perceived  that  he  and  his  confederates  could  "  make  a 
finish^'  by  Saturday.  This  expression  has  two  meanings;  one, 
that  a  spirited  effort — with  perhaps  a  trifle  of  overtime — may 
end  the  job  on  that  day;  the  other,  that  a  leisurely  attitude,  as 
of  lotus-eaters,  may  expand  or  dilute  that  job  in  such  a  manner 
as  to  deceive  the  unprofessional  eye,  and  make  its  owner  submit 
with  a  good  grace  to  a  charge  of  a  week's  wage  for  a  day's  work. 
In  the  present  case  those  tiresome  workmen  had  only  just  got 
out  of  the  house  when  its  master  returned,  accompanied  by  Fred 
Carteret  as  usual.  They  went  straight  to  the  contemplation  of 
their  result. 

"  Not  half  bad  that,  Fred,"  said  Charley,  who  had  been  show- 
ing some  tendency  towards  an  aesthetic  raison-d' ctre  for  this 
door.  The  original  impulse  to  construct  it  had  served  its  turn, 
and  might  be  discarded  as  a  concession  to  Xeurosis  of  which  one 
might  be  half  ashamed,  but  which  deserved  forgiveness.  "  Let's 
see  how  it  looks  open."  Of  course  the  way  out,  when  the  dbor 
stood  open,  was  like  any  other  exit.  But  it  was  a  satisfaction, 
for  all  that,  to  put  it  through  its  paces,  as  it  were.  The  two 
young  men  passed  into  the  lobby,  crossed  it,  and  stood  looking 
out  into  the  garden,  now  in  the  fullest  glory  of  a  summer 
evening.  The  days  were  just  passing  through  the  short  period 
when  the  redundance  of  new  foliage  on  every  tree  cancels  the 
memory  of  its  winter;  and  in  the  suburbs  of  the  great  black 
town  scores  a  new  triumph  over  the  sooty  atmosphere  we 
thought  had  this  year  slain  branches  and  trunk  outright.  The 
sun  had  passed  off  half  the  lawn  and  rose-beds,  and  stood  pledged 
not  to  return  till  to-morrow's  dawn,  leaving  Tom  the  gardener 
free  to  squirt  over  them  to  his  heart's  content,  and  fill  the  air 
with  an  assurance  that  "  God's  in  His  Heaven,  all's  right  with 
the  World."  A  thought  one  is  happy  over,  until  some  other 
bouquet  reminds  us  where  the  Devil  is. 

"  I  must  get  Tom  a  bigger  lawn-mower,"  said  the  master  of 
the  house.  "  He  can't  keep  the  oTass  down  with  the  one  he's 
got." 

"  You  won't  save  power  by  increasing  the  size  of  the  machine," 
replied  the  engineer. 

"  Xo — but  if  he  harnesses  his  son  in  front  of  a  bigger  one 
he'll  cut  twice  as  quick.    ...    I  sav,  Fred !  " 

"  m\a.i  say,  old  chap  ?  " 

"  I  was  thinking  how  jolly  different  the  place  looks  from  when 
we  came  here  first — me  and  the  missus,  I  mean."     This  was  an 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  335 

attempt  to  dissociate  the  place,  as  far  as  might  be^  from  the  cloud 
that  hung  over  it.     But  it  did  not  succeed. 

"  Very  unlike  what  my  uncle  saw/'  said  Fred,  gravely. 
There  was  no  getting  away  from  it. 

Charley  laid  an  affectionate,  apologetic  hand  on  his  friend's 
shoulder.     "  I'm  sorry,  dear  boy,"  said  he.     ''  Never  mind !  " 

'•  My  fault,"  said  Fred.  "  I  might  have  let  it  alone.  The 
thing  is  as  it  is,  and  we  can  do  nothing."  A  mere  common- 
place of  fatalism  this,  and  Fred  knew  it. 

They  said  no  more,  but  walked  in  silence  to  the  far  end  of 
the  lobby,  incurring  a  sudden  shrill  censure  from  the  parrakeets 
as  they  passed  the  big  cage.  They  returned  in  silence,  but 
stopped  half-way,  and  the  parrakeets  reserved  their  opinion  until 
it  could  be  repeated  as  a  broadside. 

"  You  know  what  I  think,  Fred?  "  Charley  was  bent  on  con- 
solation. "  He'll  come  back,  alive  and  well,  and  we  shall  see 
him  here,  I  hope,  in  this  very  house — in  this  very  place !  I 
wonder  will  he  remember  coming  here,  and  the  old  woman 
running  away  to  open  the  door." 

"  But   .    .    .  !  " 

"  Oh,  I  know — it  seems  impossible.  But  I'm  only  telling  you 
my  conviction.  .  .  .  There's  Lucy."  He  shouted  and  whistled 
to  her,  but  she  either  did  not  or  would  not  hear  him.  She 
came  slowly  across  the  lawn  to  the  house,  absorbed  in  the  roses 
she  had  gathered, — an  image  of  beauty  that  merged  in  the  beauty 
of  the  dying  day  or  cancelled  it,  according  to  the  preoccupation 
of  the  eye  that  saw  her.  Fred  would  have  ignored  his,  only  too 
gladly;  but  how  ignore  the  pulsations  of  an  unruly  heart? 
Nothing  left  but  pretence !  It  should  succeed,  if  human  force 
of  will  could  make  it  do  so.  So  said  Fred  to  that  unruly  heart 
of  his,  and  it  seemed  to  mock  at  his  resolution,  cruelly. 

She  vanished  into  the  house,  through  a  door  that  opened  on 
the  lawn,  that  had  been  a  window  of  the  sitting-room  before  the 
alterations,  and  they  retraced  their  steps  to  meet  her.  The 
parrakeets  waited  for  their  chance,  firing  their  broadside  of 
shrieks  with  unanimous  discipline,  and  dropping  the  subject  the 
moment  the  enemy  was  out  of  sight. 

"Haven't  we  met  before  to-day?  I  suppose  we  haven't,"  was 
Lucy's  languid  response  to  her  husband's  remark  on  entering 
the  sitting-room.  "  I  never  heard  you  go  in  the  morning."  She 
put  out  her  countenance,  cornerwise,  within  kissing  distance. 
But  she  retained  Fred's  hand  in  her  own  while  she  did  it. 

"  Thought  I  had  better  let  you  have  your  sleep  out,  dearest," 


336  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

said  Charley,  apologetically.  "  You  see,  Fred,  it's  like  this. 
When  I  walk  to  the  station,  I  have  to  clear  out  of  the  house 
at  eight  o'clock,  to  catch  the  train  at  half-past."  He  was 
entering  into  further  particulars  of  the  position,  when  his  wife 
stopped  him. 

"  It's  all  right,  Charles  dear.  We  understand  that  it's  inevi- 
table. Never  mind  about  the  alterations  of  the  trains."  Then 
she  had  time  to  finisli  saying  good-evening  to  Fred,  with  the 
help  of  the  hand  she  had  left  with  him  for  the  purpose. 

It  was  the  slightest  of  incidents,  and  passed  in  half  the  time 
it  takes  to  write  it. 

"  I  sang  out  to  you  across  the  garden,  and  you  didn't  hear 
me,"  said  Charley  to  his  wife. 

"  You  should  have  shouted  louder,"  was  the  unconcerned 
reply.  Then  she  asked — where  was  he  when  he  shouted?  But 
the  question  was  addressed  more  to  Fred  than  to  him. 

Fred's  mind  was  a  maze  of  inconsistencies,  bred  of  the  posi- 
tion. How  reconcile  a  blind  intoxication  of  unruly  passion  with 
indignation  at  its  object's  semi-neglect  of  her  husband?  Yet 
that  describes  the  bias  of  his  thoughts  at  this  moment.  His 
task  was  resolute  concealment,  hers  to  help  his  resolution  by 
clear  tokens  of  a  love  elsewhere.  If  she  failed  there,  he  was 
lost.  Otherwise,  his  lot  was  a  burden  to  him  alone.  Grant  that 
it  was  a  hell,  none  need  know  it  but  himself.  But  it  was 
-easiest  borne  when  she  had  no  suspicion  of  it.  That  hell  was 
.at  its  worst  when  its  evil  spirits  muttered — had  she? 

Fred  strove  to  accept  the  hand  that  remained  in  his,  the  eyes 
that  rested  unreservedly  on  his  face,  as  the  best  negative  to  such 
•questioning.  "Where  was  he  when  he  shouted?"  he  repeated. 
"  Where  were  we,  Charley  ?  .  .  .  Oh,  I  know  !  Just  the  other 
side  of  the  little  green  birds." 

"  Half-way  down  the  long  passage,  sweetheart,"  says  Charley. 
"  We  went  through  the  new  door.  To  baptize  it,  don't  vou 
know?" 

'^  I  thought  so." 

"  I  thought  you  didn't  see  us.     You  said  so." 

"  I  said  I  didn't  hear  you.  I  saw  you  plain  enough.  And 
somebody  with  you.     Who  was  it  ?  " 

Fred  and  Charley  looked  at  each  other,  in  doubt.  Each  shook 
Ills  head  as  though  to  a  spoken  enquiry.  No — they  had  been 
alone. 

The  lady  looked  incredulous.  "  But  I  saw  someone,"  said  she. 
■"  As  plainly  as  I  see  you  now," 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  337 

"  There  wasn't  anybody,"  said  Charley,  in  the  tone  of  a  man 
who  is  getting  used  to  his  wife's  fancies.  Then  he  looked  at  his 
watch,  and  became  alive  to  the  lapse  of  time.  "  I  say,  Luce," 
said  he.  "  We  shall  keep  dinner  waiting  again  if  we  don't  look 
sharp."  So  they  went  away  to  dress.  But  Mrs.  Snaith  went 
through  one  door,  and  her  husband  and  his  friend  through  the 
other,  the  one  that  led  to  the  great  staircase.  Each  of  the  men 
looked  at  the  other,  and  the  husband  said : — "  Rum  that,  too ! 
With  the  new  door  and  all !  But  let  her  alone.  She'll  come 
to  rights."  His  eyes  were  open  to  this  singular  nervous  fancy 
of  hers,  about  the  place,  but  closed  to  his  own — and  his  friend's — 
danger. 


CHAPTER  XXII 

Mamma  Hinchliffe — so  called  by  her  son-in-law — had  been 
deposited  by  her  barouche  at  The  Cedars  some  half-hour  since, 
and  was  accompanied  by  a  friend,  this  time.  She  was  thick- 
sown  with  jewellery  when  she  appeared  in  the  drawing-room, 
and  majestic.  The  friend  was  another  sort;  but  it  was  worth  a 
great  deal,  that  sort.  Its  value  may  only  have  been  a  third  of 
what  her  late  husband  died  worth,  but  that  only  showed  what 
a  superior  sort  he  was.  Her  dress  said,  almost  audibly: — 
"  Xever  mind  my  dignilied  reserve.  Only  think  of  what  I  cost." 
And  every  one  of  her  rings,  restrained  though  it  was,  was  Avorth 
quite  a  real  person's  banker's  account. 

Hers  was  not  a  full-blooded  opulence,  but  one  of  a  sort  very 
recognisable  by  Society,  which  really  knew.  This  lady  had  come 
to  enjoy  a  full  week-end — to  spend  Saturday  evening  and  stop 
over  Sunday.  She  did  the  former  on  the  lines  of  one  who  wishes 
others  to  say  next  day  what  a  very  nice  person  that  Mrs.  So- 
and-so  is !  But  the  next  morning  she  said  to  Mrs.  Hinchliffe, 
visiting  her  after  breakfast  in  her  own  room : — "  Mr.  Carteret  is 
an  old  friend  of  your  daughter  ?  " 

"  Of  her  husband,"  replied  Mrs.  Hinchliffe.  "  They  are  like 
brothers,  I'm  told.     I  know  him  very  little  myself." 

"  Brothers.  I  see,"  said  the  visitor.  "  How  very  nice  !  And 
he  sings  Italian  duets  with  his  friend's  wife.  Quite  ideal !  " 
One  has  no  authentic  particulars  of  the  behaviour  of  a  lynx  on 
a  week-end  visit,  so  it  is  safest  to  say  that  Mrs.  Bannister  Stair 
seemed  an  observant  person.  Even  a  lynx,  however,  could  have 
seen  nothing,  ideal  or  otherwise,  next  day;  as  Fred  and  Charles 
went  for  a  long  walk.  When  they  returned,  they  found  that 
the  party  that  sat  down  to  dinner  would  be  a  party  of  eight,  by 
the  time  three  guests  from  the  neighbourhood  had  been  an- 
nounced. "Who  are  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Wigham  Baynes?"  Fred 
asked  of  Charley,  who  replied : — "  Haven't  the  slightest  idea. 
But  they  live  near,  so  Luce  asked  them  to  dinner.  He  writes 
things,  i  believe."  The  odd  gentleman — to  make  up  the  eight 
^was  a  chap  he  had  met  at  the  Club,  who  was  staying  at 
Wimbledon.  Something  in  the  Board  of  Trade,  Charley  be- 
lieved, but  he  wasn't  sure.     "What's  his  name?"  asked  Fred. 

338 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  339 

Charley  wasn't  sure  of  that  either,  but  thought  it  was  something 
like  Monday  Morning.      "Look  out  sharp  when  Modicum  an-' 
nounces  him,"  said  he.     "  It  won't  do  to  have  him  here  all 
the  evening  and  not  know  his  name !  " 

"  It  isn't  ]\Iunby  Moring  by  any  chance,  I  suppose  ?  "  said 
Fred.  But  it  was.  And  Fred  breathed  a  prayer  that  this 
gentleman  had  heard  that  he  and  Cintra  were  "  off,"  and  that 
he  had  not  forgotten  it. 

Mr.  Munby  Moring  was  late,  appearing  some  time  after  the 
above  conversation.  When  one  sees  any  acquaintance  of  hours 
gone  by  after  its  successors  have  passed  into  years,  raptures  are 
desirable,  as  for  a  dear  friend  risen  from  the  dead.  Fred 
executed  his  creditably,  but  Mr.  ]\Ioring  put  too  much  side  on. 
If  his  statements  were  trustworthy,  nothing  short  of  a  rapid 
succession  of  miracles  had  prevented  his  calling  every  week 
through  the  whole  interval  to  pay  his  respects  to  the  Professor. 
And  on  each  of  these  occasions  he  would  have  looked  forward 
with  joyous  anticipation  to  the  luxury  of  meeting  his  old  friend 
Mr.  Frederic  Carteret.  But  his  official  preoccupations  had  been 
of  such  a  nature  that  every  social  relaxation  had  been  out  of 
the  question. 

After  exhausting  this  phase  of  the  topic,  Mr.  Moring  appeared 
to  remember  something  he  had  forgotten,  for  he  prefaced  his 
next  remark  with  : — '"  But — by  the  way  !  "  Fred  prepared  for 
the  worst.  He  knew  it  must  come,  and  waited.  Mr.  Moring 
appeared  to  decipher  in  his  mind's  diary,  and  to  experience 
confirmation.  "  Yes — by  the  way !  "  said  he.  "  I  was  promised 
the  pleasure  of  congratulating  ..."  and  stopped,  with  a  sly 
or  waggish  identity  asserting  itself  through  his  everyday  de- 
meanour. It  was  nipped  in  the  buy  by  what  Fred  suspected  was 
an  inarticulate  grimace  of  someone  behind  his  back,  probal)ly 
Charley  come  to  the  rescue.  As  usual  in  such  cases,  Mr.  Moring 
had  not  the  slightest  idea  why  he  was  to  pull  up  short,  nor  even 
the  inadvisability  of  saying : — "  Oh,  I  beg  pardon !  "  However, 
that  didn't  much  matter,  "and  Fred  felt  that,  on  the  whole,  he 
had  got  off  cheap. 

Over  two  hours  later,  when  the  four  gentlemen  emerged 
from  the  atmosphere  of  their  cigars  to  join  the  ladies  in  the 
drawing-room,  they  found  it  empty,  and  heard  the  voices  of 
the  said  ladies  in  the  garden  beyond,  outside  in  the  summer 
night.  Then  it  was  that  Mr.  Munby  Moring,  catechetical 
about  the  identity  of  Mrs.  Bannister  Stair,  the  friend  of 
Charley's  wife's  mamma,  detained  his  host  to  explain  that  he 


340  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

had  known  that  lady's  deceased  husband  intimately  in  early 
life — in  fact,  till  he  wont  to  India.  Made  a  heap  of  money 
there,  Stair  did.  Comin'  home  to  see  what  he  could  spend  it 
on,  and  got  a  chill,  comin'  north.  You  did,  if  you  didn't  take 
care.  Great  mistake,  hurryin'  off  the  boat,  to  save  time,  at 
Genoa.  Much  better  go  round  by  Gib.  Nobody  ever  got  any- 
thing on  the  chest,  aboard  ship.  Let  him  see,  wasn't  she  a 
Crackham?  Must  have  been  a  Crackham.  Or  wasn't  she  one 
of  the  Strawbury  girls? 

Fred  lost  the  rest,  and  presently  Lucy's  voice  was  saying  to 
him,  under  the  stars : — "  I'm  glad  you're  come.  These  women 
bore  me.  Suppose  we  walk  about  ?  "  And  they  did  so,  leaving 
— said  Lucy — her  maternal  parent  to  look  magnificent  by  the 
light  of  a  Chinese  lantern,  and  make  what  she  might  of  the 
literary  gentleman.  Charley  would  have  to  amuse  Mrs. 
Novelist.  Perhaps  she  would  pass  him  on  to  her  husband  for 
copy,  and  he  would  get  into  print. 

As  for  Mr.  Moring  and  the  former  Miss  Crackham,  or 
Strawbury,  they  went  as  near  rushing  into  one  another's  arms 
as  one  does — or  two  do — in  blameless  vSociety.  They  launched 
into  a  revision  of  all  the  persons  l)oth  had  known,  all  those 
that  either  had  known  and  the  other  hadn't,  and  all  those 
neither  had  known  but  both  might  have  known.  The  classes 
were  so  numerous  that  they  had  to  retire  to  a  solitude,  under 
an  ilex,  to  do  any  sort  of  justice  to  them.  And  there  Modicum 
provided  them  with  a  Chinese  lantern,  all  to  themselves. 

"  What  were  you  and  Charles  doing  in  the  colonnade  ?  "  said 
Lucy,  giving  the  long  passage  a  name  it  had  acquired  in  the 
past  3'ear;  somewhat  unreasonably,  as  there  were  no  columns. 
'*  Yes — this  eveninsf,  when  vou  said  there  was  nobodv  there." 

"  There  iras  nobody  there,"  Fred  answered.  "  Nobody  but 
ourselves." 

They  were  in  a  leaf-covered  avenue  that  crossed  the  end  of 
the  large  garden.  It  had  still  the  marks  of  its  antiquity.  The 
thick  moss  upon  the  gravel  footway,  the  memories  of  some- 
thing built  of  stone,  disintegrating  at  the  bidding  of  the  damp 
— something  that  might  have  made  part  of  a  summer-house,  or 
parapet  at  least,  but  that  gave  no  clue  to  speculation  to  say 
what  part.  It  ended — the  avenue  did — in  a  dead  wall  invisible 
for  ivy,  that  only  emerged  into  being  as  a  cheval-de-frise  at  its 
top,  much  the  worse  for  two  centuries  of  oxidation.  The  place 
had  been  left  a  wilderness  to  satisfy  Archaeology  yearning  for  a 
raison-d'ctre,  and  had  not  supplied  it.     But  it  suggested  grue- 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  341 

some  memories  of  the  days  when  ^lolancholia  paced  its  length 
in  silence,  no  sadder  than  its  wont  for  the  gibber  of  harmless 
Lunacy  close  at  hand,  unconscious  even  of  the  violent  cries  of 
the  bad  case  in  the  padded  room  up  yonder.  For  the  lock-up 
for  raving  madness  had  been  identified,  by  the  iron  stanchions 
of  an  upper  window  within  the  glass. 

Lucy  turned  to  her  companion  at  the  end  of  the  path,  by 
the  dead  wall.  "  Xobody  but  '  yourselves ! "  she  repeated. 
"  Upon  your  honour,  Fred !     Look  me  in  the  face." 

"  Upon  my  honour,  no  one !  "  He  complied  with  her  im- 
perious word  of  command.  But  never  had  ho  felt  more  glad  of 
his  conviction  that  she  could  not  see  into  his  heart.  It  was  a 
faith  that  stood  between  him  and  a  madness  as  bad  as  any  of 
its  forerunners,  here  in  the  past.  He  clung  to  it  as  his  sole 
resource  against  himself. 

"  You  sound  like  a  man  speaking  the  truth,"  said  she.  "  But 
then,  ivho  was  it  I  saw?" 

"You  are  sure  you  did  see  someone?" 

"  Perfectly  certain." 

"What  was  he  like?" 

"  That's  quite  another  matter.  I  wasn't  interested  enough 
in  him  to  take  his  measure.  If  I  had  known  you  and  Charles 
were  going  to  deny  his  existence,  I  should  have  looked  to  see 
what  he  was  like.     I  was  some  distance  off,  too." 

"  Well — he  wasn't  there  !  " 

"  I  suppose  he  wasn't,  since  you  both  say  so."  Then,  dis- 
missing, as  of«-no  importance,  this  ambiguous  unknown  person, 
— for  indeed  that  was  what  he  seemed,  with  such  small  testi- 
mony for  his  existence — she  turned  to  another  topic.  "  You 
know  the  man  that  took  me  in  to  dinner — sat  between  me  and 
mamma?  What  is  he?  Charles  met  him  at  his  Club,  I  be- 
lieve.    But  he  didn't  seem  to  know  much  about  him." 

"  He  knows  as  much  as  I  do.  I  only  met  him  once — a  year 
ago.     More." 

"Where?" 

Fred  never  could  mention  the  name  of  Cintra's  family  with 
complete  unconcern.  "  At  the  Frasers',  a  year  ago.  "  Oh — 
more  than  that!  Yes — a  good  deal  more."  He  seemed  to 
consider  the  lapse  of  time  an  extenuating  circumstance.  "  I 
really  know  very  little  more  of  him  than  you  do." 

"  Fancy  that !  I  thought  he  was  quite  an  old  friend,  by  his 
manner.     But  what  a  narrow  escape  he  had !  " 

"  I  don't  think  I  understand." 


342  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

"  WTiy — when  he  was  ushered  in.  He  all  but  asked  you 
after  .  .  .  after  that  young  lady.  If  Charles  hadn't  made 
grimaces — well ! — all  the  fat  would  have  been  in  the  fire." 

Fred  laughed,  or  made  believe  to  laugh.  "  It  wouldn't  have 
flared,"  said  he.  "  He  might  have  felt  rather  like  an  idiot, 
though." 

''What  should  you  have  said?" 

"  Oh,  I  should  just  have  said  we  had  thought  better  of  that       | 
— might  have  told  him  the  young  lady  was  engaged  to  some- 
body else.     It  would  have  been  true." 

"  Yes.  But  suppose  he  had  taken  for  granted  that  it  had 
mellowed  up  and  come  off — that  this  Fraser  girl  was  Mrs.  You, 
in  fact   ..." 

"  He  couldn't  have  thought  so.     She  would  have  been  here." 

"  Oh  nonsense  !     A  cold — any  little  thing !  " 

"  Well — he  didn't  think  she  was  Mrs.  Me,  or  anything  of 
the  sort." 

"  Don't  be  offended." 

"How  could  I  be  offended  at  anything  you  said?" 

Oh,  the  vanity  of  human  resolutions !  Here  was  this  young 
man,  who  for  so  long  had  sealed  up  in  his  heart  a  futile 
passion  that,  for  all  its  futility,  seemed  to  him  a  supreme 
disloyalty  to  his  friend — here  was  Fred  Carteret,  the  moment 
these  words  had  passed  his  lips,  turning  angrily  on  his  inner 
self,  to  rend  it  for  its  indiscretion.  For  nothing  can  be  more 
certain  that  that  he  who  would  conceal  from  a  woman  the 
fact  that  she  has  turned  his  head,  had  best  beware  lest  by  so 
much  as  half  a  word  he  implies  that  she  is  to  him  anything 
that  Poll  round  the  corner  or  Betsy  over  the  way  are  not. 
Above  all,  let  him  avoid  any  accent  on  the  lady's  personal 
pronoun. 

However,  it  could  not  be  unspoken.  Moreover,  there  was 
always  a  golden  bridge — or  was  it  a  copper,  or  even  a  pewter 
bridge? — the  bridge  of  Friendship.  How  many  reciprocities 
have  made  the  mere  fact  that  it  was  near  at  hand,  to  run  to 
on  a  pinch,  a  modus  vivendi  through  a  period  of  embarrass- 
ment! Besides,  so  long  as  the  lady  is  silent,  nothing  comes 
of  it.  The  burr  in  your  sleeve  remains  stationary,  till  your 
arm  moves. 

They  walked  in  silence  the  length  of  the  pathway,  and  came 
almost  within  hearing  of  Mr.  Munby  Moring  and  the  com- 
panion of  his  tcte-a-tcie,  Mrs.  Bannister  Stair.  They  had  got 
something  to   talk  about,   from   the  vivacitv   of  their  manner; 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  343 

something  with  a  lady  and  a  gentleman  in  it,  said  Suspicion, 
always  on  the  watch.  But  the  very  nature  of  this  something 
had  caused  their  voices  to  drop  in  a  disappointing  manner. 

"'  I  wish  they  wouldn't  be  so  confidential/'  said  Fred's  com- 
panion. "  It  would  be  so  amusing  to  know  what  they  have 
found  to  talk  about;  apart  from  the  pleasure  of  eavesdropping, 
which  is  always  great."     Fred  assented. 

What  was  it  that  lady  and  gentleman  dropped  their  voices 
over,  there  in  the  summer  night,  out  of  all  reasonable  hearing 
of  host,  hostess,  and  other  guests?  To  say  nothing  of  their 
security  among  honourable  people,  best  expressed  by  their  young 
hostess's  fearlessness  of  making  eavesdropping  the  subject  of 
a  jest.  The  reason  was  probably  the  usual  one  for  voice- 
dropping — the  fear,  that  is,  that  he  or  she  whom  you  are  just 
speaking  of  will  hear  you  speak  of  him  or  of  her.  For  it  was 
just  about  the  time  that  the  lady  said,  as  a  sequel  to  personal 
matters  that  do  not  concern  the  story : — "  And  who  is  the 
handsome  young  man?  You  know  him  at  home,  it 
seems." 

'^  Eh — who — I  ?  Well,  I  don't  know  that  it  goes,  as  far  as 
that.  Don't  even  know  where  he  lives,  exactly.  Was  to  have 
married  the  daughter  of  a  man  I  know.     That's  all." 

"  Oh — I'm  disappointed !  I  should  have  thought  he  was  a 
long-lost  second-cousin  once  removed,  for  instance." 

"  No — not  a  bit — not  a  bit !  Merely  met  him — merely  met 
him — at  an  old  friend's.  At  her  father's,  in  fact;  but  it  was 
broken  off,  it  seems.  Snaith  was  tellin'  me,  just  as  we'd  done 
our  smoke." 

"Didn't  he  get  to  ivhy — to  why  it  was  broken  off?" 

"  Can  tell  you  what  he  said — mutual  consent  of  parties — 
that  kind  of  thing." 

"  And  did  you  believe  him?  " 

"Middlin'!     Well— no— perhaps  I  didn't." 

"  Who  was  the  other  girl  ?  "  Really  the  story  might  just  as 
well  have  likened  this  Mrs.  Stair  boldly  to  that  lynx.  For  she 
was  one  of  those  diabolically  penetrative  people  who  have  seen 
a  great  deal  of  the  World.  But  it  and  she  never  came  to  a 
crisis.     For  her  diamonds  were  unimpeachable. 

Mr.  Moring,  on  the  other  hand,  professed  a  deadly  discretion 
— a  soul-freezing  discretion — whenever  any  two  persons  pos- 
sessing a  sex  apiece  came  within  a  league  of  ane  another.  He 
may  be  said  to  have  lived  with  his  forefinger  on  his  lips  to 
show  how  much  he  wasn't  saying  about  his  neighbours.     "  Xo 


344  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

— I  say  now !  "  said  he.  "  No  scandal  against  Queen  Elizabeth. 
.    .    .   Well — he  never  told  me  anything." 

"  And  if  he  had  you  wouldn't  have  repeated  it.  /  see.  But — 
isn't  that  them  coming  back  .  .  .  ?  "  It  may  have  been  just 
at  this  moment  that  their  words  became  inaudible. 

Nobody  on  the  other  side  of  the  evergreens  could  have  heard 
Mr.  Moring's :—"  Shish !— they'll  be  off  directly."  ...  A 
short  interregnum  for  their  benefit  followed,  in  tones  ostenta- 
tiously audible;  a  mechanical  recrudescence  of  the  personal 
matters  just  disposed  of.  It  referred  to  Llandrindod,  where 
Mrs.  Moring's  rheumatism  was  receiving  incalculable  benefit. 
Llandrindod  was  in  Monmouthshire,  and  ]\Ir.  Moring  couldn't 
speak  too  highly  of  it.  He  could  be  audible  with  safety  about 
Llandrindod.  But  as  soon  as  the  only  possible  audience  was 
out  of  hearing,  he  dropped  his  voice  illogically  to  secrecy 
point.  ..."  You  were  going  to  say  .  .  .  ? "  He  came 
nearer  to  hear. 

"  It's  those  two  I'm  talking  about.  ...  Of  course  I  7nay 
be  mistaken.    ..." 

"  H'm ! ," 

"...  But  anyone  could  see,  by  the  way  they  went  on  in 
the  house." 

"  Which  way  ?     I  saw  nothin'." 

"  Stupid  man — that's  just  the  point.  They  looked  the  other 
way,  and  never  spoke.  And  now — look  at  them !  .  .  .  Yes — 
this  side." 

This  last  referred  to  Mr.  Moring's  eyeglass,  which  he  had 
started  in  chase  of,  over  his  waistcoat.  He  found  it  on  that 
side,  and  directed  a  search-glare  through  it  into  the  darkness, 
from  which  were  audible  the  voices  of  the  couple  under  dis- 
cussion. But  they  were  shrouded  in  gloom.  "  Can't  see  'em," 
said  he.     "  Take  your  word  for  it !  " 

"  Well — don't  do  that !  But  look  at  them  next  time  you 
get  a  chance.  .  .  .  Wait  a  minute ! — they're  coming  back 
now." 

Mr.  Moring  kept  the  gloom  under  observation.  From  it 
emerged,  chiefly,  a  white  cloud  of  muslin.  In  subordination 
as  to  size,  but  whiter,  and  sharper  in  outline,  a  shirt-front. 
The  observer  noted  that  these  two  objects  approached  through 
the  gloom  keeping  the  same  distance  apart.  This'was  in  favour 
of  their  relations  being  normal.  "  Well,"  said  he,  "  I  shouldn't 
say  they  were  quarrellin',  as  far  as  I  can  see.  That's  nothin' 
to  go  by." 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  345 

"  Perhaps  my  penetration  is  at  fault,"  said  the  lady,  some- 
what coldly. 

Mr.  Moring  hastened  to  acknowledge  the  inferiority  of  his 
judgments  of  human  nature.  "  Dessay  I'm  wrong,"  said  he. 
"  Not  a  dab  at  this  sort  of  thing.  ,   .   .  Never  was !  " 

"  Very  likely  I  am  mistaken.  Let  us  consider  that  I  am 
mistaken.     But  you  can  tell  me  who  was  the  other  girl." 

"  Can't — 'pon  my  honour !  ]\Iy  friend  here — Mr.  Snaith, 
you  know — only  told  me  the  thing  went  off.  Died  a  natural 
death  by  consent  of  both  parties.     Things  do." 

"  But  I  understood  that  you  didn't  believe  him." 

"Well-1-1!  p'r'aps  I  didn't,  altogether.  Didn't  boil  over, 
s'pose  we  say !  " 

"  Rather  a  half-hearted  belief — was  that  it?  " 

"  Somethin'  of  that  sort.  Much  better  expression  than  mine. 
As  I  said,  I'm  not  exactly — a  dab." 

"  Then — who  teas  the  other  girl  ?     It  comes  to  that." 

Mr.  Moring  seemed  a  little  restive  under  the  incisiveness  of 
this  conclusion.  "  Put  it  that  way  if  you  like,"  said  he. 
"  Snaith  said  nothin'  about  her,  anyhow.  Don't  believe  he 
knows." 

'^  My  dear  Mr.  Moring,  you  men  really  are!  Now  is  it  likely 
that  he  would  know?     Be  reasonable!" 

"  Don't  follah,  altogether  !  " 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say  you  don't  see  ?  " 

"  I  see  what  you're  drivin'  at."  A  slight  inflection  of  the 
speaker's  countenance  towards  the  gloom  in  which  the  uncon- 
scious subjects  of  this  conversation  were  again  approaching 
showed  his  appreciation  of  what  was  meant. 

"  Of  course  you  do !  "  said  the  lady.  Then  a  pause  followed 
to  allow  voices  and  footsteps  to  get  out  of  hearing.  It  gives 
the  story  time  to  note  a  ciirious  fact.  In  this  conversation 
absolutely  no  direct  reference  was  made  by  either  party  to  its 
subject. 

It  must  have  been  at  this  moment  that  Lucy  said : — "  Tliey've 
fallen  flat — used  the  gossip  up,  I  suppose." 

"  No,  they  haven't.  You'll  see  they'll  begin  again  wlien  we're 
out  of  hearing."  Which  proves  to  be  the  case,  for  the  moment 
the  eavesdroppers'  chance  was  gone  the  conversation  freshened. 
No  suspicion  had  crossed  their  minds  that  they  were  under 
observation. 

That  unfortunate  stress  on  the  personal  pronoun  had  had  to 
be  actively  ignored,  by  mutual  consent.     The  young  lady's  abso- 


346  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

lute  silence  in  answer  had  seemed  to  take  Friendship's  efficiency 
to  deal  with  it  for  granted.  The  opportunity  for  eavesdropping 
had  helped  to  slur  it  over,  and  what  passed  in  the  gloom  during 
the  next  turn  up  and  down  had  been  almost  hysterically  im- 
personal. But  it  rankled,  that  personal  pronoun.  Like  the 
soul  of  the  slain  Eedskin  that  soaks  into  that  of  his  slayer,  so 
it  soaked  into  the  conversation,  and  coloured  it.  It  was  its 
unacknowledged  influence  which  dictated  that  a  memory  of  the 
past  should  be  disinterred,  as  soon  as  talk  could  go  back  to 
business. 

"  Do  you  remember  one  day,"  said  Lucy,  "  when  I  had  been 
over  to  see  your  motlier,  and  you  met  me  in  the  train  ?  " 

"  Yes — a  year  and  a  half  ago."  He  had  dispositions  to  say 
he  should  rather  think  he  did;  but  checked  them  after  his 
experience  with  that  personal  pronoun.  "  You  mean  when  we 
walked  round  Eegent's  Park  Square  in  the  sunset."  It  would 
have  been  safer  to  leave  the  sunset  out.  But  why?  Leave  it  in 
now,  having  done  it. 

Lucy  palliated  that  sunset,  with  a  judicious  correctness  of 
phrase.  "  I  remember  it  perfectly,"  said  she.  "  It  was  an 
exceptionally  fine  one.  But  do  you  remember  what  I  said  to 
you  then,  about  Miss  Cintra  Fraser?" 

"  You  wanted  me  to  go  back  to  her — to  try  to  undo  the  past." 

"  I  did.  And  when  you  said  that  was  impossible,  because  you 
had  ceased  to  care  for  her,  I  accused  you  point-blank  of  caring 
for  some  other  woman ;  as,  else,  how  could  you  know  ?  And  you 
admitted  that  it  was  the  truth." 

"  It  was  the  truth." 

"  Was  ?  Then  it  is  not  true  now  ?  Oh,  do  say  that  that  is 
what  you  mean !  " 

"  I  cannot.  I  did  not  mean  it  in  that  sense.  It  is  as  true 
now  as  it  was  then.  Nothing  has  changed."  His  voice  was 
strained,  and  he  must  have  known  it.  He  did  not  meet  her  gaze, 
but  flinched  from  the  burden  of  its  enquiry,  as  he  continued 
in  short  sentences,  each  one  seeming  to  cost  a  separate  effort. 
"  But  I  can  tell  you  nothing.  Nothing  is  left  to  be  said.  I 
entreat  you  not  to  question  me.  The  tiling  must  be,  and  I  must 
bear  it.'  What  harm  is  done?  The  penance  is  my  own — leave 
me  to  deal  with  it.  I  could  not  tell  you  if  I  would — could  not — 
could  not!  " 

"  Fred !  "  Wrenched  as  he  was,  her  voice,  speaking  his  name, 
was  a  solace  to  him.  "  One  thing  you  can  tell  me,  at  least. 
Does  this  lady   .    .    .  ?  " 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  347 

"Does  this  lady  what?" 

"  Does  she  know  it  ?  " 

"  Know  what  ?     There  is  nothing  to  know." 

"  Is  it  nothing  that  you  love  her  ?    Is  she  a  stone  ?  " 

"  She  is  as  sweet-hearted  as  she  is  beautiful."  The  safety  of 
saying  this  was  as  a  breath  of  fresh  air  to  him,  half  choked  as 
he  was  with  his  life  of  secrecy.  And  his  eyes  could  feast  on 
her  face  unblamed,  there  in  the  dim  starlight.  "  But  this  I  do 
know,"  he  continued,  "  that  she  knows  nothing — and  by  Heaven 
she  never  shall  know  anything! — of  my  love  for  her,  cost  me 
what  it  may  to  conceal  it."  He  should  have  stopped  there,  and 
kept  a  check  on  a  too  compliant  tongue,  under  sway  of  a  tem- 
pestuous heart.  He  should  not  have  let  it  add : — "  I  shall  never 
speak  of  it  to  her  nor  her  ..."  He  stopped  with  a  jerk, 
and  would  have  recalled  the  last  two  words.  The  others  he 
might  have  compounded  for,  somehow. 

But  she  had  heard  them  too  plainly.  "  Nor  her  what  ? " 
said  she. 

What  a  blunder  to  make!  He  had  not  seen  that  no  question 
could  arise  of  speech  with  a  husband  on  such  a  matter  except 
his  relations  with  that  husband  had  been  like  his  with  hers. 
But  then,  how  was  she  to  know  what  his  friendships  were? 
Would  not  open  speech  be  safer  than  an  entrenchment  in 
silence  ? 

He  cut  short  weighing  the  subject,  and  said  simply : — "  Her 
husband."  He  was  relieved  when  her  next  words  franked  him 
of  explanation. 

"  Oh  dear !  "  said  she.     ''  Then  I  see.     She  has  a  husband." 

"  Yes.  But  I  have  no  reason  to  suppose  she  is  not  devoted 
to  him." 

"  Has  one  ever  ?  With  any  wife  and  any  husband,  I  mean." 
She  spoke  drily ;  and,  do  what  he  would,  the  thought  would  creep 
across  his  mind  of  that  demoralising  suggestion  of  his  mother's. 
Was  that  idea  of  Xancy  Fraser's  about  her  beautiful  friend's 
coldness  to  her  husband  necessarily  a  fantastic  dream?  He 
repudiated  it  angrily,  but  it  ignored  his  rebuffs.  Slie  went  on 
speaking : — "  But — poor  Fred  ! — it  is  all  over  for  you,  any- 
way." 

"How  could  it  be  otherwise?" 

"  Well — I  mean  that  it  doesn't  come  into  practical  politics. 
The  Workl  is  too  much  with  us.  But  sometimes — not  infre- 
quently neither — it  is  otherwise." 

"  1  don't  know  whether  I  quite  follow." 


348  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

"  How  slow  we  are  to-day !  Do  jjcople  never  drive  a  coach- 
and-six  through   .    .    .  ?  " 

"  Through  morality?  Of  course  they  do.  And  we — we 
respcctahles — help  the  World  to  })ull  a  long  face  over  their 
enormity.     But   ..." 

She  misunderstood  his  pause.  "  Oh,  I  can  assure  you/'  said 
she,  "'  that  /  am  not  strait-laced.  I  feel  very  lenient  towards 
the  Sinner." 

"  1  did  not  mean  that,"  said  he.  "  I  am  less  strait-laced  than 
I  like  to  acknowledge — less  than  you  would  approve  perhaps. 
But  it  does  me  no  good  in  this  ease." 

"  Does  you  no  good  ?  "     His  words  puzzled  her. 

"Jly  loose-lacedness — if  that's  the  word.  ...  I  am  afraid 
I  had  better  stop  and  say  no  more  about  it.  For  it  is  impossible 
that  I  should  make  myself  understood." 

They  had  twice  or  thrice  been  within  hearing  of  the  middle- 
aged  gossips  under  the  Chinese  lantern,  but  the  earnestness  of 
their  own  talk  had  destroyed  the  charm  of  eavesdropping.  At 
this  moment  fhey  had  the  world  to  themselves,  at  the  dark  and 
silent  end  of  the  path.  For  all  that,  she  dropped  her  voice  to 
answer  him,  as  though  the  stars  with  their  light  and  the  Avind 
with  its  music  in  the  leaves  were  best  kept  out  of  their  confi- 
dence. "  Listen,  Fred,"  said  she.  '"  You  say  that  this  idol  of 
yours  is  all  wifely  devotion,  and  that  sort  of  thing.  How  do 
you  know  you  are  not  mistaken?  Have  you  ever  dared — now 
mind — ^}^ou  are  not  to  answer  this  question  unless  you  like ! — 
have  you  ever  dared  to  speak  of  your  love  to  her?  Or  have  you 
perhaps — man-fashion — been  treating  her  as  though  she,  being 
only  a  woman,  was  entitled  to  no  voice  in  the  matter?  Wliat 
evidence  have  you  of  Iter  feelings  towards  you?" 

Fred  felt  much  like  the  poet's  wild  thing  taken  in  a  trap, 
that  sees  the  trapper  coming  through  the  wood.  But  he  could 
not  cry  out.  He  must  needs  articulate  some  reply.  He  made 
answer,  white  as  a  sheet,  and  with  the  controlled  voice  that  tells 
of  its  owner's  distress : — "  I  have  never  said  one  word  of  it  to 
her.  She  knows  nothing.  I  do  not  know — cannot  know — that 
if  I  did  she  would  not  despise  and  hate  me." 

The  story  can  only  suppose  that  the  reason  Mistress  Lucy 
preserved  so  complete  a  self-command  at  this  moment  was  the 
one  it  imputes  to  all  women  of  her  type  under  like  circumstances. 
She  stood  committed  to  nothing — was  safe  in  a  supposed  igno- 
rance, a  port  of  shelter  at  the  slightest  threat  of  storm.  Had 
Fred  given  way  to  what  was  really  easiest  to  him,  and  made  full 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  349 

confession  that  she,  and  only  she,  was  the  idol  he  had  spoken  of, 
she  would  always,  if  she  was  really  in  need  of  a  haven,  have  had 
this  one  to  run  to.  Who  could  blame  her,  for  mere  warm 
friendship,  shown  to  her  husband's  friend?  Why — any  falter- 
ing in  that  friendship  would  have  laid  her  open  to  a  suspicion 
of  consciousness  on  the  subject,  consciousness  from  which  perfect 
innocence  was  free. 

Anyhow,  her  voice  sounded  self-possessed  enough  when  she 
made  answer : — "  And  why  ?  How  can  any  woman  despise  and 
hate  a  man  for  loving  her?     I  don't  believe  in  that  woman." 

It  was  a  kind  of  desperation  that  made  Fred  say : — "  Not  for 
loving  her  maybe,  but  for  an  act  of  perfidy — of  treachery  with- 
out a  parallel — in  this  case."  He  ought  to  have  kept  th«  whip- 
hand  over  his  tongue. 

She  drew  the  inevitable  conclusion,  and  repeated  it  with  per- 
fect control.  "  Perfidy  towards  her  husband,  of  course."  She 
did  not  wait  for  contradiction,  his  only  chance  now  of  escape, 
but  went  on : — "  Only — why  without  a  parallel  ?  ^^^lat  is  her 
husband  to  you  that  you  should  be  so  scrupulous?  Are  you  not 
thinking  more  of  him  than  of  her?" 

Fred  could  not  utter  a  word.  How  could  he  say : — "  He  is  my 
oldest  friend,  and  my  dearest.  His  wife  is  a  plant  of  last  year's 
growth  "  ? 

She  continued : — "  Perhaps  you  think,  as  men  do,  that  if  you 
can  conceal  your  love  it  is  your  right  to  do  so.  But  how  do  you 
know  you  can?  Love  is  harder  to  conceal  than  hate."  He 
muttered  something  under  his  breath.  "  What  is  that  ?  "  she 
said.  "  You  know  that  she  is  unconscious — is  that  it  ?  Oh, 
Fred,  is  a  woman  ever  unconscious  of  a  man's  love?  " 

"  She  is  unconscious  of  mine."  Fred  believed  this  at  the 
moment,  with  what  was  scarcely  a  hope  lurking  in  the  corner  of 
his  heart  that  the  belief  was  unwarranted.  Human  nature  was 
in  am])ush  in  a  thicket  of  good  resolution.  The  story  is  sorry 
for  Fred. 

"  If  that  were  a  thing  you  could  know,  you  might  be  right. 
But — how  can  3'ou  Icnow  it?" 

"  I  am  convinced  of  it.     Do  not  let  us  talk  any  more  of  this." 

There  was,  at  the  end  of  the  blind  alley  where  they  stood,  an 
exit  under  an  arch  of  pleached  boughs  leading  out  on  the  lawn. 
Fred  made  as  though  he  would  pass  through  this  and  bring  their 
conversation  to  an  end  by  rejoining  the  party,  on  the  lawn.  She 
stopped  him,  standing  before  this  narrow  opening,  with : — "  No, 
Fred,  not  yet!     Do  not  go  in  till  you  have  told  me  more.     You 

23 


350  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

had  it  on  3'Our  lips  to  tell  me  but  now.  Whose  wife  is  she  whom 
you  are  so  mad  about — whose  husband  is  so  dear  a  friend  as  to 
make  you  hate  yourself  for  loving  her  so  much?  \Yho  is  he 
that  we  have  never  heard  his  name?  "  Her  hands  were  upon 
him  to  stop  him,  and  all  the  lustre  of  her  beseeching  eyes  was 
upon  him,  so  near  his  own. 

The  middle-aged  gossips  under  the  Chinese  lantern  allowed 
the  voices  and  footsteps  to  get  out  of  hearing;  then  went  on 
again. 

"  It  goes  without  saying,"  said  the  lady,  "  that  I  may  be 
altogether  mistaken.  No  one  is  readier  than  I  am  to  admit 
herself  fallible.  But  .  .  ."  The  implication  of  this  con- 
Junction  was,  that  a  situation  might  occasionally  arise  which 
would  be  prohibitive  of  a  false  construction,  even  by  an  observer 
inferior  to  herself. 

Mr.  Moring  seemed  to  wish  to  demur  to  this,  but  to  lack 
physical  courage.  "  I  don't  know  quite — p'r'aps — whether  I 
should  go  so  far  as  that  .  .  .  'pends  on  circumstances,  don't 
it  ?  "  said  he,  feebly. 

The  reply : — "  Time  will  show  " — expressed  confidence,  with 
patience.  Experts  in  prophecy  can  bear  to  await  its  fulfilment. 
Mrs.  Stair,  however,  could  be  lenient  to  a  mere  outsider.  "  You 
would  perhaps  think  quite  differently,  Mr.  jMoring,  if  you  were 
in  my  position.  Naturally,  I  hear  things.  You  see,  this  young 
lady's  mother  is  my  very  old  friend."'  She  paused  a  moment 
before  adding : — "  Let  me  see !  I  think  you  said  your  acquaint- 
ance with  ]\Ir.  Snaith  was  not  of  long  standing." 

"  Only  introduced  the  other  day,  at  the  Club.  .  .  .  "Wliat's 
that?  .  .  .  Somethin'  I  don't  know?  .  .  .  Nobody  ever  tells 
me  anythin'.  .  .  .  I'm  out  of  it."  He  was  ready  to  imbibe 
information,  and  listened. 

"  I  suppose  I  oughtn't  to  repeat  things.  Only  really,  when 
everybody  knows  them,  it's  absurd !  "  In  point  of  fact,  this 
excellent  lady  was  itching  to  talk  over  some  surmises  she  had 
indulged  in  about  Charles  Snaith,  and  the  reasons  why  her 
friend's  beautiful  daughter  had  accepted  him ;  and  this  gentle- 
man, whom  she  was  getting  so  confidential  with,  and  who  was 
in  the  way  of  hearing  things,  would  be  sure  to  be  able  to  confirm 
or  contradict  these  surmises.  Briefly  then,  she  told  him — of 
course  stipulating  that  he  should  have  his  tongue  torn  out  with 
hot  irons  rather  than  repeat  a  word  he  heard — the  whole  of  the 
story  about  Charles's  relationship  to  the  Earl,  and  his  narrow 


I 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  351 

escape  from  a  coronet.  Mr.  Moring  undertook  profound  secrecy 
with  a  levity  which  promised  ill  for  his  observation  of  it.  He 
was  able  to  confirm  citations  from  Debrett,  and  to  add  to  that 
writer's  information  about  this  Earl's  family  particulars  which 
he  omits.  Debrett  finds  no  place  for  any  statement  that  the 
Panjandrums  are  a  dam  bad  lot — always  were !  Nor  that  Mr. 
Moring,  or  anyone  else,  wouldn't  trust  any  member  of  that 
family  with  half  a  crown,  or  introduce  him  to  any  respectable 
female — not  to  his  own  sister,  for  example.  Debrett's  would  be 
a  livelier  compilation  with  marginal  notes  on  these  lines;  but  of 
course  he  has  to  take  space  into  account. 

Apart,  however,  from  his  admission  of  the  authenticity  of  this 
Earl  and  his  family,  and  the  possibility  that  his  host  was  a  blood 
relation,  who  had  drifted  away  from  it,  Mr.  Moring  showed 
incredulity.  He  managed  to  say,  though  he  had  to  muster 
courage  to  do  so : — "  It's  only  your  idea,  you  know !  "  He  felt 
frightened  when  he  had  said  it,  and  almost  inclined  to  soften 
the  impeachment  by  adding : — "  But  your  diamonds  are 
genuine." 

Their  owner  frightened  him  still  more,  by  making  him  repeat 
his  words — a  very  good  way.  "  It's  only  my  ...  I  don't 
know  whether  I  quite  understand.  .  .  .  Wltat  is  my  idea?" 
Her  tone  may  not  have  been  severe — that  is  too  strong  a  word 
— but  it  was  certainly  forbearing,  and  forbearance  is  next  door 
to  severity. 

Mr.  Moring's  tone  was  conciliatory  to  the  point  of  self-abase- 
ment. "  Very  good  idea — you  know — "  said  he.  "  Very  good 
idea !  Quite  right  in  itself.  But  still — don't  you  know — 
an  idea  I     Don't  see  any  other  way  of  puttin'  it." 

"  You  mean  that  I  have  formed  an  opinion  on  insufficient 
grounds  ?  " 

"  Oh  no  no !  \youldn't  go  as  far  as  that — wouldn't  go  as  far 
as  that."  He  went  on  to  point  out  that  his  expression  might 
be  legitimately  interpreted  as  having  no  meaning  of  any  sort  or 
kind.     It  was  merely  a  way  of  puttin'  it. 

Mrs.  Stair  allowed  him  to  ring  changes  on  disclaimers  for 
awhile,  then  appeared  to  gather  up  for  seriousness;  to  rally  the 
conversation  against  discursiveness,  as  it  were.  "  Would  it  very 
much  surprise  you,  Mr.  Moring,"  she  said,  "  if  I  were  to  ask 
you  to  regard  all  this — especially  what  I  am  going  to  say  to  you 
— as  a  matter  of  the  strictest  confidence  ?  "  Mr.  Moring  was 
eloquent  of  his  consciousness  of  obligation  in  this  respect.  The 
lady  went  on  to  say  that  her  dear  husband  had  frequently  spoken 


352  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

in  terms  of  eulogiiim  of  Mr.  Morintr's  peculiar  gift  of  discretion, 
so  she  knew  she  might  rely  upon  him.  After  which  foreword, 
she  got  to  the  point,  dropping  her  voice  many  degrees  below  the 
needs  of  the  case,  the  better  to  defeat  publicity. 

"  This  girl's  mother,"  said  she,  "  is  one  of  my  oldest  friend's. 
I  knew  her  as  a  girl,  when  she  was  exactly  the  same  as  she  is 
now.  .  .  .  jSTo — I  don't  mean  in  appearance,  so  you  needn't 
hunt  for  your  eyeglass.  I  mean  in — well ! — in  individualities  of 
character.  No  one  else  that  I  ever  heard  of  would  have  allowed 
her  daughter  to  marry  a  man  on  such  very  insufficient  grounds. 
It  seems  to  me  to  have  been  simple  madness." 

Mr.  Moring  had  found  his  eyeglass  by  now,  and  was  gazing 
at  Mamma  HinchlifFe  on  the  other  side  of  the  lawn,  to  discrim- 
inate her  individuality,  and  was  not  sure  he  was  succeeding. 
"  P'r'aps  her  daughter  got  the  bit  in  her  teeth — will  of  her  own 
— that  sort  of  thing!"  said  he,  fragmentarily.  "Some  girls 
won't  be  guided.  Once  they  get  an  idea  in  their  heads,  there's 
no  getting  it  out." 

"  It  was  nothing  of  the  kind  in  this  case.  Mrs.  Hinchliffe 
told  me  herself  that  her  girl  was  not  in  the  least  in  love,  and 
was  not  subject  to  sentimental  nonsense.  '  Then,  Zoe  '  said  I — 
her  name's  Zoe — '  what  on  earth  is  she  marrying  him  for,  with 
a  nose  like  that?'  Because  our  host's  dearest  friend  couldn't 
say  his  nose  doesn't  stand  in  his  way."  She  stopped,  to  give 
her  hearer  time  to  consider  Mr.  Snaith's  appearance,  so  far  as 
distance  allowed  him  to  see  it  through  lenses.  Charley  was 
chatting  unconsciously  with  the  author's  wife,  unaware  that  he 
was  being  overhauled. 

Mr.  Moring  was  considering  how  far  lie  was  bound  to  defend 
a  nose  whose  hospitality  he  was,  so  to  speak,  enjoying.  His 
verdict  was  equivocal.  "  Good  deal  of  character  in  it,  I  should 
say,"  said  he.  "  Good  deal  of  character !  I've  known  a  many 
worse  noses  in  my  time  though.  .  .  .  You  were  saying?  .  .  . 
What  did  your  friend — capital  name  for  her,  by  George,  Zoe ! — 
AVhat  had  she  to  say  to  his  nose  ?  " 

"  That  is  what  I  was  going  to  tell  you.  .  .  .  Only,  as  I  said, 
this  is  strictly  between  ourselves.    ..." 

"  All  right !     You  can  rely  on  me." 

"  Well — she  didn't  say  anything  specifically  in  defence  of  his 
nose.  How  could  she?  Her  words — as  I  remember  them,  and 
I've  a  very  crood  memory — were  '  I  understand  you  to  take 
objection  to  this  young  gentleman's  appearance.  I  am  no  judge 
^of  appearances;  besides,  tkat's  Lucy's  business.     However,  1  do 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  353 

know  one  thing — that,  nose  or  no  nose,  there  are  only  two  pre- 
carious lives  between  him  and  the  Panjandrum  property.  And 
the  title.'     That's  what  she  said." 

"  H'm !  " 

"  Yes.  And  now  of  course  everybody  knows  about  this  hor- 
rible noisy  Lady  Chitterling,  and  how  his  lordship  married  her 
when  he  was  dying,  to  legitimate  the  baby  that's  just  born — 
heir  to  the  best  part  of  three  counties  if  he  lives  to  come  of  age. 
/  call  it  abominable." 

"  It's  all  regular.  Quite  legal.  They  say  old  Chitterling 
only  did  it  to  spite  his  other  sons  and  daughters — all  illegitimate 
of  course — because  he  hates  them.     I  don't  know." 

"  Anyhow,"  Mrs.  Stair  said,  reflectively,  "  Mr.  Charles 
Snaith  might  very  easily  have  inherited,  if  he  hadn't." 

"  Xarrow  squeak  !    You  think,  then,  that   .    .    .  ?  " 

"  I  don't  think ;  I  know.  I  mean  I  know  that  Zoe  Hinchliffe 
encouraged  her  daughter's  marriage  because  she  believed  that 
Mr.  Snaith — whether  he  knew  it  or  not — was  within  an  ace  of 
inheriting.  At  least,  she  never  opposed  it.  And  the  daughter 
knew  of  the  family  connection.  .  .  .  Oh  yes — she  may  have 
known  of  it  and  yet  been  in  love  with  Mr.  Snaith ;  nose  or  no  \ 
May  have — may  have — anything  may  have!  .  .  .  Well — you 
see  the  results."  The  speaker  motioned  with  her  head  very 
shohtlv  towards  the  darkness  in  which  these  results  were  buried. 
The  footsteps  and  voices  of  their  subjects,  or  exponents,  con- 
tinued to  be  audible,  but  it  seemed  to  Mr.  Moring  that  inference 
was  a  little  too  busy  about  them.  After  all,  walking  up  and 
down  a  blind  alley  and  conversing — perhaps  in  platitudes — is 
not  an  indictable  offence,  according  to  any  statute  of  morality. 

He  made  a  half-hearted  attempt  to  defend  them.  "  Oughtn't 
we  to  have  something — something  more  decisive  to  go  upon?" 
said  he.  "  Of  course  I  don't  mean  for  a  moment  to  put  my 
own — my  own  insight,  you  understand,  on  a  par  with  that  of  a 
lady  of  experience." 

She  interrupted  his  rather  unfortunate  remark,  saying  in  a 
freezing  tone : — ''  I  do  not  quite  understand  what  experience  you 
are  referring  to.  I  am  not  aware  that  my  experience  differs  in 
any  respect  from  that  of — that  of  the  World  in  general." 

Mr.  Moring  made  matters  worse.  "  Oh — nothin'  practical,  of 
course.  Only  mean  to  say  I  never  see  these  things  myself. 
Always  was  a  duft'er  over  noticin'  anythin'.  Much  sooner  trust 
your  impressions  than  my  own !     Really  would." 

As  this  was  unconditional  surrender,  the  lady  accepted  it; 


354  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

only  however  slightly  relaxing  her  severity  of  manner  to  say: — 
"  I  am  obliged  to  you.  I  think  you  will  find  that  I  am  right." 
She  repeated  her  injunctions  that  this  was  all  in  solemn  con- 
fidence, and  recognised  a  move  towards  departure  of  the  other 
guests.  "  I  suppose  we  ought  to  think  of  going  in,"  she  said. 
"  Stop  a  minute  and  let  them  pass  us."  This  of  course  was  Fred 
and  their  hostess,  who  emerged  from  the  darkness  in  silence. 

In  perfect  silence  as  towards  each  other.  But  Lucy  had  a 
society  smile  for  the  observant  lady,  and: — "It  almost  seems  a 
sin  to  go  in  on  such  a  night — now  does  it  not?  I  should  like 
to  stop  out  till  sunrise."  Mrs.  Stair  applauded  this  wish,  and 
lamented  our  artificial  civilisation.  Mr.  Moring  remarked  that 
there  wasn't  any  moon.  Fred  looked  well  round  the  sky,  and 
said : — "  No — I  don't  see  any  moon."  Both  seemed  to  think 
that  Astronomy  might  have  looked  a  little  sharper.  Then  the 
couple  passed  on  towards  the  group  on  the  lawn,  who  were 
winding  up  for  departure,  for  home  or  bed,  as  might  be. 

But  Mrs.  Stair  turned  to  Mr.  Moring,  and  said : — "  Well — 
you  saw !  At  least,  I  hope  you  did."  His  look  in  response  was 
that  of  one  who  appeals  in  arrest  of  judgment,  and  he  began : — 
"  Must  we  .  .  .  must  we  .  .  .  ? "  She  caught  up  his  words 
with: — "  ]\Iust  we  conclude  that  there  is  something?  Of  course 
we  must,  when  people  look  like  that.  But  wait  and  see.  All  I 
say  is — wait  and  see !  " 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

The  only  departures  from  the  house,  to  acknowledge  the  end 
of  the  evening  and  the  beginning  of  the  night,  were  those  of 
the  literary  guest  and  his  wife,  and  Mr.  Munby  Moring's.  Or 
rather,  they  would  have  been,  if  Charles  had  not  persuaded  the 
latter  gentleman  to  remain  on  through  the  smoking  of  a  cigar 
and  its  concomitant  chat.  On  such  a  fine  night  as  this,  he 
could  saunter  back  to  where  he  was  staying  quite  easily.  So 
Time  might  take  care  of  itself. 

"  What ! — go  to  bed  at  twenty  to  twelve !  Bother  Sunday 
night !  No — come  and  have  a  smoke,  dear  boy !  Do  you  good 
— soothe  your  nerves!"  Thus  Charley,  to  check  a  disposition 
of  Fred's  to  say  good-night,  on  the  plea  of  a  nervous  headache. 

Fred  was  not  subject  to  nervous  headaches.  "  Nothin'  better 
than  a  mild  cigar  for  a  nervous  headache !  "  said  Mr.  Moring. 
And  Charley  added : — "  Come  along,  old  chap !  Xo  more 
gammon !  " 

And  his  wife  accompanied  Mrs.  Bannister  Stair  to  her  room, 
to  make  sure  that  she  should  not  be  left  without  every  luxury 
under  heaven ;  and  consigned  her  to  Morpheus  with  benedic- 
tions. Mrs.  Zoe  Hinchliffe,  who  had  been  magnificently,  op- 
pressively, silent  through  the  evening — not  that  she  ever  was 
talkative — floated  away  to  roost  accompanied  by  a  maid. 

All  the  mansion  was,  so  to  speak,  disbarred  and  unfrocked  by 
a  rout  of  domestics;  except  the  little  smoking-room  to  which 
the  three  gentlemen  retired  to  pretend  it  was  still  yesterday,  in 
the  smallest  hour  of  to-morrow's  morning. 

Fred  was  very  silent  and  distrait.  So  much  so  that  Charley 
was  uneasy  about  him.  It  was  so  unlike  him  to  keep  out  of  the 
conversation;  to  answer  irrelevantly  when  spoken  to;  and  to 
rather  not  have  anything  that  was  olfored  him,  thank  you !  His 
human  interests  seemed  to  centre  in  the  smoke  he  himself  was 
making. 

Said  Charley,  with  his  back  to  the  recollection  of  extinct  fires 
in  an  empty  grate : — "  Didn't  know  I  was  asking  you  to  meet  an 
old  acquaintance,  Mr.  Moring.  What's  the  lady's  name? — Ban- 
nister Stair.     Great  friend  of  my  mother-in-law." 

"  Well !  "  was  the  reply.     "  P'r'aps  old  acquaintance  isn't  the 

S55 


356  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

expression.  Married  an  old  friend  of  mine's  nearer  the  mark. 
But  as  a  matter  of  fact  1  never  saw  her  in  my  life  before." 

"  Comes  to  the  same  thing,  though  !  " 

"  Oh  yes — comes  to  exactly  the  same  thing !  Plenty  to  talk 
about,  you  know — plenty  to  talk  about." 

"  I  thought  you  seemed  very  busy  at  it  under  the  trees  over 
there.  She's  a  very  .  .  .  Well, — perhaps  1  should  express  it 
— she  has  been  about  a  good  deal.  Seen  a  good  deal  of  the 
World?" 

"  Quite  so !  "  said  Mr.  Moring,  in  the  tone  of  a  man  who  feels 
bound  to  sav  something.  "  Quite  so.  A  great  deal  of  the 
World." 

Charley  eased  off  the  conversation.  "  You  and  her  husband 
were  at  college  together?"  said  he,  in  an  incidental  sort  of  way. 

"  Yes — thick  as  two  thieves  we  were.  Oh  yes — and  for  many 
Vears  after  that.  It  was  after  his  wife  died  he  went  to  India — 
his  first  wife,  you  know." 

"  Yes.     I  was  thinking.     Of  course  this  lady  was  his  second." 

"Was  his  second.  She's  a  rather  different  person  from  his 
first.  We  kept  up  our  correspondence  till  the  year  of  his  death, 
her  husband  and  1.  Four  years  back,  I  suppose.  Died  of 
double  pneumonia  in  Paris.  Caught  it  in  the  Alps  coming 
from  Genoa.  Much  better  have  stayed  on  the  boat,  and  come 
round  by  sea."  But  the  lady  reasserted  herself.  "  He  left  her 
all  his  monev  though.     I  must  say  I  did  not  expect  that," 

"  Any  children  ?  " 

"  No — at  least,  none  livin'.     Son  died." 

"Then,  why  shouldn't  he  leave  her  his  money?"  Charley 
w^as  interrupted  by  Fred,  who  rose  to  depart.  He  hadn't  listened 
to  the  conversation,  evidently.  It  was  that  nervous  headache, 
presumably.  Was  he  going  to  take  anything  for  it?  Xo,  he 
wasn't — he  was  going  to  sleep  it  off.  Good-night !  AMien  Fred 
had  gone,  Mr.  Moring  got  back  to  the  subject  his  de])arture  had 
interrupted,  seeming  nevertheless  only  half  disposed  to  say  any- 
thing intelligible  about  it.  "  I'm  not — at  all — sure,"  said  he, 
"  that  one  ought  ever  to  say  anything  to  anyone.  About  any- 
thing. But  gentlemen  in  your  profession  don't  count.  You 
never  repeat  anything." 

Charles  shook  his  head  continuously.  "  Never  by  any  chance," 
said  he.  "  If  you  want  anything  kept  secret,  you  can't  do  better 
that  tell  it  to  all  the  Solicitors  in  London.  T]}ey'll  keep  it  secret 
for  you." 

"All  right.     Chaff  away.     But  I  know  you  won't  repeat  it. 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  357 

if  I  mention  to  you  that  that  lady  was  not  exactly   .    .    .   not 
exactly   ..." 

"  Not  exactly  what  ?  " 

"  Not  exactly  a  perfect  wife.  That's  why  I  didn't  expect  her 
husband  to  leave  her  all  his  money." 

"  It  was  rum.     But  there's  no  accounting  for  people." 

"  None  whatever.  None  whatever."  He  mused  a  moment 
and  said  suddenly : — "  Are  you — by  way  of  seeing  much  of 
her?" 

''Who?  I?  "\Aliy— no!  Not  very  much,  at  least.  She's  a 
friend  of  my  mother-in-law.     Never  been  here  before !     Wliy  ?  " 

Mr.  Moring  became  concrete  and  serious.  "  You  may  have 
observed,  Mr.  Snaith,  or  you  may  not — I  have,  certainly, — that 
when  a  lady  has  been,  as  the  phrase  is,  blown  upon,  she  becomes 
— in  a  certain  sense — mentally  diseased?  " 

"  A — how  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  Well — this  way — she  can't  let  it  alone.  When  she  sees  a 
fellow  shake  hands  with  a  girl  she  looks  to  see  how  long  it  lasts. 
When  she  sees  two  married  couples  playing  whist  or  bridge,  she 
keeps  here  eye  on  them  all  the  evening.     That  sort  of  thing." 

'■'  Ye-es — I  think  I  know  what  you  mean.  .  .  .  Yes — I  cer- 
tainly know  what  vou  mean.  And  vou  think  this  good  ladv  has 
—got  like  that?"  ^ 

"  Well — I  think  I  may  go  as  far  as  that." 

"  And  I  had  better  be  on  my  guard  against  her  ?    Is  that  it  ?  " 

"  I  shouldn't  take  everything  she  says  for  gospel — that's  all. 
This  was  probably  an  attempt  to  discount  the  effects  of  mischief- 
making  on  the  part  of  Mrs.  Stair,  for  Mr.  Moring  doubted  the 
soundness  of  her  impressions.  It  did  not  reach  his  hearer's 
mind,  for  Charles  only  said  indifferently : — "  She  won't  talk 
scandal  to  me.  Nor  to  my  wife,  for  that  matter.  Besides,  she 
isn't  stopping  on — is  in  fact  going  away  to  some  friends  at 
Beckenham,  early  to-morrow." 

Mr.  jMoring,  content  with  his  effort,  felt  about  for  a  change  of 
topic.  "  Let — me — see !  "  said  he.  "  It's  getting  on  for  two 
years  ago  that  I  met  this  young  gentleman,  ^Mr. — Mr.   .    .    ." 

"  Carteret.     Fred  Carteret." 

"  Precisely.  I  ought  to  have  remembered  his  name,  but  I'm 
bad  at  names.  He  was,  as  I  remember,  at  the  time  very  anxious 
and  uneasy  about  a  relative  who  hadn't  turned  up — was  missing. 
I  hope  that  affair  all  came  right?  " 

"  Well — no !  I  am  sorry  to  say  it  didn't.  Dr.  Carteret 
never  reappeared — never  has  done  so,  at  least." 


358  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

"Whew — you  don't  mean  that?     WTiat  do  3'ou  suppose?" 

"  Don't  know  what  to  suppose." 

"  What  do  the  poHce  say  ?  " 

"  They  haven't  given  him  up.  Say  he  may  be  alive  still — 
somewhere.  ...  I  believe  that's  what  they  think  still.  But  I 
can't  say  for  certain.  I  haven't  heard  anything  lately."  The 
old  Doctor  was  rapidly  becoming  a  memory — a  thing  to  com- 
mand a  passing  word,  no  more ! 

Very  passing,  in  this  case.  For  Mr.  Moring  looked  at  his 
watch,  and  said  he  must  be  going.  But  he  had  just  time  for 
a  reminiscence,  a  propos.  "  I  remember,"  said  he,  "  now  that  I 
come  to  think  it  over,  that  our  young  friend  Mr. — Mr.  Carteret 
seemed  rather  surprised,  that  day  I  met  him  at  the  Professor's, 
to  hear  that  a  paragraph  on  the  subject  had  been  inserted  in 
the  daily  Press.  I  was  in  some  doubt  shortly  afterwards 
whether  I  should  not  write  to  let  him  know  that  I  had  heard 
— which  I  did  quite  accidentally — how  that  paragraph  had  come 
to  be  inserted  in  the  Daily  Telegraph,  I  think  it  was." 

"  Why  didn't  you  ?     How  was  it?  " 

'•  It  was  McMurrough — he  was  sub-editor ;  is  still,  I  believe. 
He  said  he  had  it  from  the  family.  So  I  supposed  Mr.  Carteret 
was  sure  to  hear.     I  thought  I  needn't  put  my  finger  in  the  pie." 

Charley  heard  the  name  as  one  hears  chance  names  ore  does 
not  commit  to  memory.  "  He  certainly  didn't  have  it  from  any 
of  the  family  that  I  know,"  said  he.  "Or  I  should  have  heard. 
My  recollection  is  that  we  all  agreed  that  the  less  that  was  said 
about  it  the  better.  Especially  in  those  blessed  news- 
papers." 

"Well— that's  what  he  told  me.  That  he  had  it  from  the 
family.  Or  stop ! — was  it  through  an  intimate  friend  of  the 
family  ?  " 

"  Much  more  likely.  That's  the  way  of  these  things  usually. 
Or  it's  a  friend  of  a  friend,  or  of  a  friend's  friend.  It's  the  fate 
of  all  first-hand  information  to  have  its  edge  taken  off  next  day. 
However,  you  may  take  it  from  me  that  Fred  doesn't  know — 
what's  his  name  ?     O'Dowd?     O'Flannigan?  " 

"  No — Mc]\Iurrough.  I  suppose  it  was  a  liberty  of  the 
Press — a  liberty  the  Press  took   ...    I  say,  I  must  be  off." 

The  night  air  was  sweet  at  the  great  front  gate  when  Charley 
went  out  to  see  his  visitor  off.  The  laggard  moon  was  rising 
in  a  sky  that  was  showing  no  interest  in  the  dawn  over  yonder, 
as  he  left  that  gentleman  on  his  way  towards  Wimbledon,  and 
sauntered  back  to  the  house.     He  found  his  own  bedroom  candle- 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  359 

lamp  awaiting  him  in  solitude  at  the  foot  of  the  great  staircase, 
which  creaked  as  stairways  do  in  the  nightl}'  silence  as  he  passed 
up  it,  pausing  to  cancel  a  stray  light  or  two  that  had  outlived 
its  fellow  to  make  darkness  visible  to  the  last  comer.  As  he 
passed  the  doorway  of  the  room  Fred  occupied,  he  hung  fire  for 
a  moment,  and  listened.  Yes — a  restless  footstep  within,  pacing 
about ! 

"  Hullo,  Fred,  old  chap ! — aren't  you  in  bed  ?  "  He  had  to 
accompany  this  with  a  tap,  speech  above  a  loud  whisper  being 
irregular,  near  so  much  sleep  presumably  in  full  swing.  Fred 
came  to  the  door.  "  It  wasn't  locked,"  said  he.  ""  Come  in." 
Charley  came  in,  and  noted  that  his  friend's  only  bedwardness 
was  shown  by  his  having  thrown  off  his  evening  coat  and  waist- 
coat and  substituted  a  thin  silk  jacket,  suited  to  the  weather. 
He  had  shed  his  watch  and  some  keys  on  the  dressing-table,  and 
kicked  his  shoes  off.  Otherwise  he  had  made  no  concessions  to 
the  hour.  An  unappreciated  hot-water  can  stood  in  his  basin, 
moistening  a  towel  in  defiance  of  common  sense,  and  falling 
slowly  to  the  temperature  of  the  atmosphere.  His  bed  gaped 
for  him  in  vain,  offering  pyjamas,  and  seeming  to  urge  him 
to  put  them  on  and  come  to  its  bosom,  unheeded. 

"  I  say,  dear  boy,  this  won't  do.  What's  the  matter  with 
you?     You're  feverish."     So  Charley  said,  and  thought. 

"  Do  I  look  feverish  ?  Don't  think  I  am — one — two — three — 
four."     He  reported  on  his  pulse,  with  his  finger  on  it. 

"  Come,  I  say !  Xever  was  a  pulse  as  slow  as  all  that !  Give 
me  hold."  Charley  took  his  wrist  from  him,  and  gave  his 
version — allegretto  nioderato,  against  Fred's  largo.  "  Look  here, 
young  feller !  This  won't  do.  You  go  to  l)ed  and  go  to  sleep ! 
What's  the  matter  ?  " 

"  Nothing's  the  matter."  This  was  very  brief  and  conclusive. 
"  I  say,  Charley !  " 

"  You  go  to  bed  and  go  to  sleep." 

"  All  right.  In  a  minute.  Or  two.  Or  six.  You  know  I've 
always  been  liable  to  sleepless  fits — used  to  have  them  when  I 
was  a  boy.  Not  like  most  boys,  was  it  ?  Why — don't  you  recol- 
lect, when  we  were  kids — quite  nippers — at  Vexton,  and  slept  in 
dormitory  twenty-two    .    .    .  ?  " 

"  Eather !  " 

"...  What  a  row  I  got  the  dormitory  in  for  keeping  it 
awake,  because  I  couldn't  sleep  myself?" 

"  I  should  think  I  did !  And  old  Cuticle  came  round  in  the 
middle  of  the  night,  and  caught  us  singing  Vilikins  under  the 


3G0  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

bedclothes,  not  to  be  heard  outside.  Wasn't  his  name  really 
Carter?" 

"  Something  of  the  sort.  But  we  called  him  Cuticle  for  being 
such  a  skinny  beggar.  Yes — he  reported  us,  and  we  got  a 
hundred  lines  apiece  all  round.  .  .  .  What  fun  it  was,  in  those 
days !  " 

"  Yes — and  we  didn't  hate  old  Stultifex  Maximus  in  the  least. 
.  .  .  Beg  your  pardon,  old  boy  !  I  had  quite  forgotten."  For 
the  words  had  passed  his  lips  before  he  remembered  the  tragedy 
of  Fred's  uncle,  who  of  course  was  referred  to.  But  was  it  the 
recollection  of  him  that  had  somehow  modulated  Fred's  coun- 
tenance, and  reset  it  in  a  minor  key?  May  it  not  have  been  the 
memory  of  the  old  schooldays,  the  thought  of  long  ago,  clashing 
with  the  dread  of  a  gathering  nightmare — the  enforced  ruin  of 
an  ancient  friendship? 

Charley  could  not  be  off  seeing  it.  "  What  is  the  matter  ?  " 
said    he.      "  Something's    the    matter    or    you    wouldn't    look 


so." 


"  No — nothing — nothing !  Nothing's  the  matter.  Except  a 
bit  of  a  headache — not  worth  speaking  of !  "  Fred  tried  for  a 
laugh,  but  it  didn't  come  off.  He  gave  it  up,  and  said  seri- 
ously:— "I  shall  be  all  right  to-morrow.  Good-night,  old  boy! 
.  .  .  No — I'm  quite  in  earnest !  There  is  nothing  the 
matter." 

Charley  looked  incredulous,  tried  visibly  to  find  a  solution  of 
the  puzzle,  and  gave  it  up.  "  Well !  "  said  he  at  last.  "  Don't 
walk  about  all  aight  this  time.  Go  to  bed,  dear  fellow,  like  a 
reasonable  Christian,  and  sleep  it  off.     Ta,  ta." 

"  All  right !  Don't  bother  about  me.  1  shall  turn  in  pres- 
ently— directly."  He  passed  through  the  door  after  his  friend, 
and  watched  him  down  the  passage.  Then  he  closed  the  door, 
and  felt  that  a  chapter  in  his  life  was  over — the  chapter  about 
Charley  Snaith. 

For  those  few  moments  in  which  the  story  lost  sight  of  him 
and  his  beautiful  companion  under  the  stars,  in  that  walk  so 
often  trodden  by  madmen  no  madder  than  himself — those  were 
the  most  momentous  of  his  life.  Ergo — he  who  reads  this  will 
think  and  say — he  must  then  and  there  have  poured  out  his  heart 
to  the  object  of  his  insane  passion.  He  must  have  declared  his 
love  for  her.  This  was  not  so,  in  the  sense  of  the  mere  words. 
But  in  the  spirit  of  their  meaning,  yes!  For  the  man  that 
catches  a  woman  in  his  arms,  and  strains  her  to  his  breast  as 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  361 

though  he  could  not  release  her  if  he  would,  breaks  through  the 
need  of  language. 

Yet  even  in  the  very  crisis  of  his  long-restrained  outbreak 
of  feeling,  he  was  conscious  of  a  sort  of  stifled  wish  that  she 
would  yet  save  him,  who  could  not  save  himself — that  she  would 
thrust  him  from  her  in  impatient  disgust;  would  prove,  at  the 
cost  of  his  happiness,  her  inalienable  fidelity  to  his  friend.  A 
mere  straw,  for  the  inner  workings  of  his  better  self  to  catch  at, 
drowning ! !  For  never  was  acquiescence  more  complete — no 
trace  of  shrinking  away  from  him,  no  reluctance  when  his  lips 
touched  hers. 

Xeither  could  speak.  It  was  the  moment  of  each  one's  con- 
fession to  the  other  of  what  each  had  for  so  long  kept  back. 
For  the  story,  in  the  dark  about  much  of  feeling  and  motive  in 
the  innermost  hearts  of  those  it  tells  of,  is  yet  convinced — no 
proof  is  possible — that  Mrs.  Charles  Snaith  was  nowise  surprised 
at  this  sudden  disclosure  of  Fred's  infatuation.  On  the  con- 
trary, it  believes  that  it  was  no  secret  from  her  even  in  the 
early  days  of  their  acquaintance;  though  then  she  believed  that 
her  own  self-command  involving  command  of  the  whole  position 
was  unimpeachable.  She — a  woman  of  the  world — could  indulge 
in  the  pleasure  of  this  handsome  young  man's  society,  unscorched 
by  flames  on  the  altar  of  any  Eros.  Had  she  not  accepted 
Charles  Snaith,  after  analysing  him  thoroughly  with  her  mother ; 
— and  was  she  not  to  be  Mrs.  Charles  Snaith,  heartwhole  and 
undivided — at  any  rate  so  long  as  the  gilt  remained  on  the 
gingerbread  of  that  possible  inheritance? 

Whether,  before  recent  events  had  made  that  castle-in-the-air 
a  thing  of  the  past,  she  had  begun  to  perceive  that  her  amuse- 
ment was  not  without  its  dangers,  who  can  say?  That  she 
had,  at  the  time  of  this  interview  with  Fred  in  the  garden,  made 
up  her  mind  what  course  to  pursue  under  given  circumstances 
seems  to  the  story  obvious  enough.  It  is  inclined  to  suppose 
also  that  she  forced  the  running  at  the  last;  for  she  must  have 
known  by  then,  if  she  did  not  know  before,  that  she  herself  Avas 
the  cause  of  this  distemper  of  the  young  man's  mind.  Was  it 
likely  that  any  man  could  be  on  such  terms  with  ttvo  friends 
that  his  betrayal  of  cither's  domestic  peace  could  be  "  treachery 
without  a  parallel"?  This  might  seem  to  Fred  a  reasonable 
description  of  his  behaviour  to  her  husband,  in  case   .    .    . 

But  what  other  woman's  husband  was  there  who  could  be  the 
object  of  such  a  treachery?  Xo — she  was  the  woman,  and  she 
knew  it,  when  she  stood  between  him  and  an  escape  from  his 


362  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

own  admissions,  through  tho  little  archwa}-  at  the  end  of  the  dark 
alley  beyond  the  lawn.  And  he,  walking  to  and  fro  in  the  silence 
of  his  bedroom,  after  his  friend  had  left  him,  was  little  consoled 
to  reflect  that,  technically,  his  pledge  against  avowal  of  her 
possession  of  his  heart  had  been  observed;  that  he  had  never 
said  to  her,  in  so  many  words : — "  I  love  you." 

What  was  Fred  to  do  with  the  Monday  morning  ahead  of  him 
in  the  house  of  his  dear  old  schoolmate — for  nothing  could  alter 
that  relation  between  them?  Charley  was  Charley  Snaith  still, 
and  would  remain  so  for  him  to  the  end,  come  what  might  of 
this  madness.  But  to  be  there  in  his  unconscious  friend's  house, 
a  traitor  against  him;  to  have  an  awful  secret  preying  on  the 
vitals  of  his  soul,  yet  to  be  pledged  to  conceal  it  by  every 
bond  of  honour  to  a  fellow-traitor,  was  unendurable,  even  for  an 
hour. 

Fred  knew,  or  thought  he  knew,  what  he  should  do  to  avoid 
those  terrible  days  ahead  of  him.  He  would  begone,  somehow, 
somewhere — what  matter  where?  To  go  away  and  endure  his 
thwarted  life  alone,  in  new  scenery,  with  new  faces  to  look  upon 
— that  was  possible,  even  if  it  was  painful.  This  present  here 
and  now  were  two  impossibles,  even  if  they  should  come  to  be 
the  place  and  time  of  an  unholy  delirious  joy;  a  draught  to  be 
drained  by  stealth,  with  a  bitterness  to  follow — the  dregs  of 
guilt  at  the  bottom  of  the  cup.  He  shuddered  at  his  own  fore- 
cast— shrank  from  the  vision  he  conjured  up,  even  as  the  knight 
of  the  old  story  shrank  from  the  dark  caverns  of  the  enchanted 
mountain,  yet  heard  the  song  and  joyous  laughter  calling  from 
the  heart  of  it  to  him  to  come.  Oh,  that  she  had  only  been  the 
legal  possession  of  some  man  whom  he  could  have  hated !  What 
a  joy  it  would  have  been  to  defy  the  world — the  calling,  card- 
leaving  world — for  her  sake  !    But — Charley  ! 

And  yet,  as  he  stood  there,  with  the  memory  upon  him  of  that 
moment  in  the  starlight,  scarcely  two  hours  since;  stood  there 
with  the  touch  of  her  fingers  still  tingling  in  his,  the  touch  of  her 
lips  still  warm  upon  his  own;  the  consciousness  of  her  name, 
unlike  all  others,  still  whispering  in  his  brain;  every  fibre  of 
his  soul  penetrated  with  her  personalit}' — as  he  stood  there  and 
spoke  to  his  heart  of  his  overwhelming  passion  as  Love,  and 
believed  his  own  speech,  was  he  not  even  as  the  word  passed 
his  lips  doing  the  very  thing  she  herself  had  condemned  ?  Was 
he  not  placing  her  below  her  husband — ignoring  lier  claims 
upon  him  because  forsooth  she  was  a  woman?  What  right  had 
he  to  let  the  well-being  of  any  human  creature — even  Charley's 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  363 

— weigh  in  the  scale  against  hers,  if  her  self-sacrifice  was  to  be 
his  guide  ? 

No — to  run  away  would  be  mere  cowardice,  and  an  ill  requital 
of  her  confession — for  her  passiveness  in  his  arms,  brief  as  it 
was,  amounted  to  that — that  she  returned  his  love.  It  was  he 
that  had  exacted  that  confession,  by  overstepping  established 
rules  of  conduct,  as  laid  down  by  authority  for  himself  and  his 
like.  Her  acquiescence,  in  another  class  of  life,  would  have 
meant  little  or  nothing.  Polly  and  Jenny  and  Bob  and  Bill, 
who  play  kiss-in-the-ring  in  public  without  remorse,  are  not 
strait-laced  about  a  chance  caress  or  two  in  private.  Lucy's 
unresisting  surrender  to  him  meant — as  he  understood  it — all 
that  complete  absence  of  protest  could  imply.  After  that,  how 
could  he  run  away  from  her,  excoj^t  at  her  own  wish?  It  was 
a  mighty  little  thing  in  itself,  that  winding  up  of  their  garden 
interview;  but  its  implications  filled  the  Universe.  They  were 
all  the  greater — all  the  deadlier,  one  might  almost  say — in  that 
the  interview  ended,  otherwise,  in  silence.   .    .    . 

And  yet — to  remain  there !  To  2,0  on  with  the  old  life — as 
before ;  to  be  able  to  say,  each  to  the  other : — "  Let  us  forget  our 
love !  " — how  could  that  be  possible  ?  They  had  crossed  the 
Eubicon,  and  the  only  word  was  forward — if  he  remained.  And 
what  would  the  future  be,  if  that  advance  was  made?  For 
Charley,  a  hearth  made  lonely  by  a  tried  old  friend — a  disguised 
traitor !  For  him  and  for  her,  some  new  life — an  unpalatable 
one  perhaps — but  exile  in  any  case.  Look  the  facts  in  the  face. 
How  could  he  inflict  upon  her  a  life  in  which  the  lightest  evil 
to  be  borne  would  be  her  renunciation  by  old  friends  on  moral 
grounds? — a  much  harder  one  being  Chris'^ian  forgiveness  by 
others,  accommodated  to  their  conscience  by  the  reflection  that 
she  was  married  to  him  now  at  any  rate.  A  dire  picture  of  a 
suburban  home  discriminately  visited  by  some,  avoided  by  others, 
shot  through  his  fevered  imagination.  That  would  be  the 
unkindest  cut  of  all — the  tempering  of  Injustice  with  ]\Iercy. 

He  practised  self-torture  for  another  hour — suffered  remorse 
for  a  crime  that,  so  far  as  it  was  committed  at  all,  would 
hardly  have  been  regarded  by  Bill  or  Bob  or  Jenny  or  Polly  as 
conferring  on  its  perpetrator  that  status  of  a  criminal,  hardly 
so  much  as  an  honorary  degree  in  the  Faculty  of  Immorality. 
Then  he  lay  down  as  though  to  sleep,  with  a  parade  of  confidence 
in  ultimate  success,  and  was  brought  up  short  in  his  first  ap- 
proaches to  unconsciousness  by  a  question  of  some  speaker  in  a 
coming  dream,  heard  beforehand  on  the  hither  side  of  a  gate  of 


364  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

Dreamland  standing  temptingly  ajar.  It  was  a  terrible  question, 
for  all  that  the  unseen  speakei'  spoke  it  so  glibly.  "  What  shall 
you  say  to  your  mother?"  Then  in  a  moment  he  was  broad 
awake,  with  the  cold  sweat  upon  his  brow  of  a  new  apprehension. 
What  would  he — what  could  he — say  to  his  mother? 

It  was  that  pitiless  whiteness  of  her  soul,  that  would  not  allow 
her  to  picture  a  black  spot  on  her  son's,  that  stood  between  him 
and  a  full  confession.  Why  could  she  not,  when  they  talked 
together  of  Charles  Snaith's  beautiful  wife,  say  to  him  jest- 
ingly : — "  Mind  you  don't  fall  in  love  with  her,  Fred !  "  Why 
not  some  passing  reference  to  the  moth  in  the  candle-flame? 
Why  not  anything  for  him  to  hark  back  upon,  to  make  his  task 
of  revelation  easier?  What  an  easement  to  that  task  it  would  be 
to  him  to  be  able  to  recall  some  such  light  speech,  and  to  go 
with : — "  Well — your  caution  was  needed.  The  moth  is  in  the 
candle-flame."  But  now,  with  the  barrier  of  her  unconscious- 
ness between  them  and  the  Sahara  of  her  faith  in  him,  in  which 
there  were  no  wellsprings  of  sympathy  for  human  weakness,  what 
were  his  chances  of  making  an  approach  to  a  confession  easy? 
Even  if  he  began  by  saying: — "  Your  friend  Miss  Fraser  is  right 
for  once,  Charley's  wife  doesn't  care  about  her  husband,  and  had 
much  better  not  to  have  married  him,  whatever  her  reason  was 
for  doing  so," — even  if  he  tried  to  entamcr  the  subject  thus,  how 
much  nearer  would  it  bring  him  to  saying : — "  I  am  the  cause  of 
their  estrangement,  and  had  I  concealed  my  love  for  her,  I 
should  never  have  known  it  was  returned.  It  is  I  that  am  to 
blame,  but  it  is  impossible  now  to  go  back"?  No — he  knew 
what  his  mother  would  say.  She  would  at  once  infer  that  there 
was  another  man  somewhere — a  potential  co-respondent  in  a 
divorce  case — but  that  this  man  should  be  her  Fred ! — why,  see 
what  dear  friends  he  had  been  with  this  young  lady's  husband, 
from  boyhood !     "  Absurd  !  " 

In  the  end,  the  only  determination  that  seemed  to  bring  relief 
to  the  turmoil  of  his  soul  was  a  vague  provisional  resolve  of 
flight,  with  explanations  of  his  conduct  by  letter.  It  was  no 
solution  of  the  difficulties  of  the  case.  He  saw  that.  Still,  it 
substituted  a  bearable  image  of  his  future  for  one  which  seemed 
to  leave  no  end,  for  him,  but  raving  madness.  He  could  picture 
himself  to  himself  as  an  Ahasuerus,  an  Esau,  or  for  that  matter 
a  Cain,  a  purposeless  wanderer  on  the  surface  of  the  globe;  the 
last  outcast  being  a  fit  analogue  for  a  man  who  stabs  his  brother, 
even  metaphorically.  But  he  could  not  come  to  terms  with  the 
future  in  any  wise  at  all,  if  it  was  to  mean  a  tension  like  the 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  365 

present,  at  each  week's  end,  witli  duplicity  in  every  thought  and 
action.  Things  might  have  continued  as  they  were  but  for  that 
incident  in  the  garden,  even  though  the  two  of  them  had  each 
known  the  fact  of  the  other's  knowledge,  so  long  as  a  plausible 
pretext  of  mutual  ignorance  was  possible.  But  that  one  moment 
of  indiscretion  had  put  an  end  to  whatever  hope  remained  of  a 
reciprocal  concealment  that  was  growing  harder  to  maintain  day 
by  day.  Fred  had  to  accept  a  wild  project  to  fly  from  his  temp- 
tation. Heaven  knew  where,  in  order  to  gain  a  right  to  give  way 
to  sleep,  quite  two  hours  after  his  friend  had  left  him. 


24 


CHAPTEE  XXIV 

Mrs.  Hinchliffe,  Lucy's  majestic  mother,  did  not  return 
home  after  the  departure  of  her  friend  Mrs.  Stair  for  Becken- 
ham,  but  remained  on  at  The  Cedars  till  next  day.  Her  visits 
there  always  had  an  unpleasant  effect  on  the  master  of  the  house, 
whom  they  reduced  to  a  cypher.  The  expression  is  not  the 
story's,  but  Charley's  in  conversation  with  Mr.  Trymer,  who  had 
asked  him  to  dinner  at  his  own  request  when  he  suspected, 
though  he  did  not  know,  that  the  good  lady  intended  to  honour 
his  domestic  hearth  by  her  presence  until  Tuesday  morning.  His 
words  to  his  principal  were : — "  Of  course  I  love  my  ma-in-law, 
as  in  duty  bound,  but  she  reduces  me  to  a  cypher,  for  all  that." 
Mr.  Trymer  nodded  slowly  and  authoritatively,  as  though  that 
had  also  been  his  experience  of  many  mothers-in-law.  "  But  she 
may  abate,  my  dear  boy !  "  said  he.  "  She  may  abate.  I  have 
known  very  severe  cases  of  them  to  do  so."  Charley  felt  the 
cheerful  effect  of  Mr.  Trymer's  optimism. 

"  I  asked  Fred  as  you  were  so  kind/'  said  he,  packing  speech 
close,  colloquially.  "  But  he  had  another  engagement.  Some 
people  whose  name  was  new  to  me.  Can't  say  I'm  altogether 
sorry.  Fred  wants  change.  Gets  moped.  Do  you  know  he 
scarcely  goes  anywhere  except  us  and  his  mother's?  He  just 
sees  nobody.    Xow,  that's  not  right  for  a  young  man." 

Mr.  Trymer  assumed  a  profound  sagacity.  "  Is  there  by  any 
chance,"  said  he,  "  among  the  people  whose  name  is  new  to  you 
— now  mind  I  am  suggesting  nothing ! — but  is  there  by  any  pos- 
sibility ...  an  Attraction  ?  "  He  looked  fixedly  at  the  cor- 
nice of  the  ceiling  as  if  he  meant  to  do  so  till  an  answer  came, 
and  pulled  at  the  cigar  he  had  taken  from  his  lips  to  ask  the 
question.     For  this  was  at  cigar-time,  and  the  ladies  had  retired. 

"  Well-1-1 — no  !  I  should  say  not.  I  should  say — certainly 
not.  I'm  not  speaking  from  my  own  knowledge,  because  I  don't 
catechise  Fred  on  these  points.  But  my  wife  is  in  his  confi- 
dence, and  would  tell  me  if  anything  was  up.     Sure  to." 

"  The  burnt  child  dreads  the  fire !     Is  that  it? '' 

"  Something  of  the  sort.     Yes." 

Mr.  Trymer  took  his  eyes  off  the  ceiling,  and  nodded  a  general 
acquiescence  in  the  order  of  Nature.     Everything  was  evidently 

366 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  367 

what  everyone  would  have  expected.  Still,  the  most  optimistic 
philosophy  might  compare  notes.  "  Nearly  a  couple  of  years 
too,  now,  isn't  it?  "  said  he. 

"  Thereabouts." 

"  The  young  lady  married  a  ...  let  me  see !  .  .  .  Miss 
Fraser,  wasn't  she?" 

"  Cintra  Fraser.  Married  a  Professor  Lomax."  Both  spoke 
as  if  Cintra  had  selected  one  of  a  species  to  marry,  leaving  a 
good  assortment  for  subsequent  customers.  So  she  might  have 
wedded  a  gnome,  a  vegetarian,  a  landed  proprietor — anything. 

Mr.  Trymer  wasn't  really  interested  in  the  subject — was  in 
fact  merely  conversing.  "  What  name  did  you  say  ?  "  said  he. 
"  Cynthia  ?  .  .  .  Oh,  Cintra — same  as  the  place.  Now,  that 
shows  what  a  queer  thing  memory  is.  I  should  have  said  the 
name  was  Nancy.     There's  a  C  in  both,  certainly.     But  .    .    ." 

"  There's  a  sister  named  Nancy.  ...  I  suppose  you  mixed 
them  up.  Nancy  turns  up  at  our  crib  still.  Bikes  over  to  see 
the  missus.  I  never  see  her  because  I'm  always  at  our  shop 
when  she  comes.  She  and  the  missus  are  rather  thick.  I  recol- 
lect her  square  with  rather  a  pleasant  mug.  She's  Jolly  well 
gone  on  my  son,  but  I  don't  suppose  it  will  come  to  anything, 
because  of  his  years.     She's  well  on  in  the  twenties,  I  should 

say." 

"  And  your  son  is   ... " 

"  One.  At  least,  if  you  play  fair,  and  count  from  when  he 
first  drew  breath,  he  isn't  quite  that.  But  that  doesn't  prevent 
her  being  nuts  upon  him." 

"Isn't  Mrs.  Snaith  jealous?" 

Something  stood  in  the  way  of  an  answer,  such  as  badinage 
of  the  conversation  would  have  warranted.  Charley  looked  odd 
over  it,  and  paused.  After  a  moment  he  said  : — "  Well — no — 
she  isn't.     I  wish  she  were." 

"  Isn't  that  rather   .    .    .   peculiar  ?  " 

"  I  daresay  I  make  too  much  of  it.  Most  likely  it's  nothing 
but  what  they  tell  me — his  nurse  and  others.  They  all  say  it's 
not  so  very  uncommon  with  young  mammas." 

"What  isn't?"     Mr.  Trymer  was  more  interested. 

"  Mothers  taking  against  their  first  children." 

"  I  thought  it  was  the  exact  reverse." 

"  So  used  I  to.  But  they  tell  me  that  now  and  again  they 
hate  the  poor  little  beggars.  For  giving  such  a  lot  of  trouble. 
And  the  small  cards  are  so  unconscious  all  the  while.  And  no- 
body ever  consults  them.   ..." 


368  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

"  How  consults  them  ?  " 

''  AMi}' — if  they  had  any  voice  in  the  matter — they  might 
prefer  not  to  be  produced  at  all." 

Mr.  Trymer  could  not  entertain  such  an  idea — was  of  opinion 
that  all  sorts  of  obscure  and  even  forbidden  questions  might 
arise  in  connection  with  it.  He  presented  the  aspect  of  a  pater- 
familias who  felt  he  ought  to  say  something  religious  and  wasn't 
sure  what.  He  got  off  the  subject.  ''  Still  no  hint — no  sug- 
gestion of  a  hint — of  anything  to  throw  a  light  on  that  most 
mysterious  disappearance !  "  said  he. 

"  Dr.  Carteret  ?  Not  a  word.  Do  you  know,  I  sometimes 
fancy  that's  the  cause  of  Fred's  low  spirits  ?  " 

"  Nothing  more  likely.  I  must  say  this — that  nothing  would 
be  more  welcome  than  a  light  upon  that  subject.  I  am  imagin- 
ing myself  in  the  position  of  a  relative.  Absolutely  nothing. 
Not  even  a  definite  certainty  of  murder." 

"  No — I  agree.  The  uncertainty  is  hideous.  Fred,  I  should 
say,  doesn't  admit  the  effect  on  himself.  He  frets  about  his 
mother  though." 

"  She  hopes  still — is  that  so?" 

"  No,  she  doesn't.  That's  the  funny  part  of  it.  She  believes 
he  ivas  murdered." 

"  H'm  !    We  have  no  direct  evidence." 

"  She  doesn't  go  by  evidence.  There's  some  rot  about  a  dream 
— /  don't  know." 

"  Ah  well  well ! — we  mustn't  be  impatient."  Mr.  Trymer's 
implication  was  that  it  would  not  become  us  men,  who  of  course 
are  above  superstition,  to  condemn  woman,  the  weaker  vessel, 
for  susceptibility  to  it  in  trying  circumstances. 

"  Oh.  I'm  not  finding  fault.  It's  all  perfectly  natural.  One 
expects  this  sort  of  thing.  Only — it  travels.  Once  set  it  going, 
and  all  the  females  go  off  at  score.     Can't  stop  'em !  " 

''  You  seem  to  speak  as  one  who  has  suffered, — as  though 
referring  to  a  particular  case,  perhaps  I  should  say?" 

"  Well — I  do.  Because — in  a  certain  sense — I  have.  .  ,  . 
You  won't  mention  this?" 

"  Certainly   not !     Honour  bright.     Professional   confidence.'* 

"  I  don't  know  whether  you  happen  to  remember  the  details 
of  Dr.  Carteret's  disappearance  ?  " 

"  Fairly  well.     Yes — I  think  so." 

"  Well — do  you  recollect  that  the  last  time  he  was  seen  was  at 
my  house.  The  Cedars  ?  "  Charley  went  on  to  recall  some  of 
the  facts,  when  his  hearer  interrupted  him  to  say  he  knew  all 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  369 

that  perfectly  well.  "  Then,"  said  Charley,  "  I  expect  you'll  be 
c  surprised  to  hear  that  they've  cooked  up  a  ghost  out  of  that. 
They  have!  Dr.  Carteret's  ghost,  as  large  as  life!  Soon  we 
shan't  be  able  to  get  a  servant  to  stop  in  the  house.  Fact !  The 
missus  is  just  as  bad  as  any  of  'em !  " 

Mr.  Trymer  was  ready,  like  any  well-considered  member  of 
Society,  to  pooh-pooh  the  human  ghost  on  his  merits.  But  he 
was  equally  ready  to  analyse  him  from  the  point  of  view  of  a 
priori  acquaintance  with  the  ways  in  which  any  logical  ghost 
would  act  if  he  were  not  in  the  nature  of  things  non-existent. 
...  He  took  time  for  reflection,  then  said : — "  But  Dr.  Car- 
teret was  not  in  the  house  above  half  an  hour." 

"  If  that !  "  said  Charley.  "  However — there's  his  ghost,  sure 
enough.  Everybody  sees  it,  the  minute  he's  told  to.  Or  she 
does,  anyhow." 

But  the  weakness  of  Dr.  Carteret's  title  to  haunt  The  Cedars 
seemed  to  Mr.  Trymer  to  call  for  consideration,  before  looking 
at  him  on  his  merits  as  a  spectre.  "  Dr.  Carteret  had  no  con- 
nection with  the  house,"  said  he.  "  He  merely  went  over  the 
premises  to  inspect  them,  with  a  caretaker.  1  don't  profess  to 
understand  these  things,  but   ..." 

"  It  is  rather  rum,  certainly,"  Charley  said.  "  But  I  suppose 
it  would  work  out  all  right,  as  far  as  that  goes.  They  would 
know  all  about  that,  at  the  What-do-you-call-it  Research 
Society.  I  shan't  ask  'em  though,  or  I  should  be  investigated, 
before  I  knew  where  I  was." 

Mr.  Trymer  still  seemed  dissatisfied,  on  the  same  point,  going 
back  on  it.  "  How  long  do  you  make  out  that  Dr.  Carteret  was 
in  the  house,  all  told?"  said  he.  "Remember  too  that  this 
house  at  the  time  was  to  him  just  like  any  other  house.  I  believe 
there  was  then  some  question  of  his  nephew  taking  it  on  lease. 
But  there  was  not  even  an  agreement."  He  went  on  to  adduce 
precedents  tending  to  show  that  no  well-authenticated  ghost 
would  haunt  a  building  he  had  only  casually  visited  during  his 
residence  here  below.  Ho  left  the  subject  unsettled  and  asked 
Charley  to  tell  him  who  had  seen  the  ghost. 

Charley  gave  him  an  abstract  and  brief  chronicle  of  events 
as  he  recollected  them.  It  included  incidents  the  story  has  not 
referred  to,  chiefly  as  proof  that  a  ghost  will  grow  the  moment 
the  germ  of  it  falls  on  fertile  soil.  He  traced  it  all  to  his  visit 
to  the  house  with  his  fiancee,  an  age  ago.  She  had  then  seen, 
by  tlie  merest  chance,  an  elderly  clerical  gentleman,  one  among 
sundry  persons  who  were  viewing  the  premises  at  the  same  time, 


370  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

just  on  the  spot  wliere  Dr.  Carteret  had  been  left  by  the  care- 
taker. It  had  never  occurred  to  her  till  some  months  later 
that  this  worthy  person,  whoever  he  was,  was  other  than  incar- 
nate. The  drunken  old  caretaker  had  thought  fit,  long  after,  to 
deny  that  any  other  visitors  were  then  in  the  house;  whereupon 
Mrs.  Charles,  unaware  of  the  fatal  reaction  caretaking  has  on 
the  truthfulness  of  its  votaries,  had  jumped  to  the  conclusion 
that  he  was  a  ghost,  or  at  least  an  hallucination — at  any  rate  a 
phenomenon,  not  a  party.  Mrs.  Klem  had  continued  to  ascribe 
the  latter  character  to  him.  But  then  her  veracity  was  at 
stake. 

Well  then — what  was  the  consequence?  Xo  sooner  had  this 
casual  visitor  to  the  house  taken  rank  as  a  phenomenon,  than 
every  blessed  member  of  the  household — cook,  nurse,  kitchen- 
maid,  groom  or  gardener — who  happened  to  see  any  stranger  in 
or  near  the  premises,  at  once  contrived  on  enquiry  to  recollect 
that  stranger  as  of  clerical  appearance,  whereupon  he  was  forth- 
with enrolled  as  a  ghost.  There  was  no  stopping  it  once  it  was 
started.  Just  set  one  of  'em  off  and  the  others  followed  suit. 
Mr.  Trymer — said  Charles — knew  what  uneducated  people  were. 
And  that  gentleman  nodded  a  comfortable  appreciation  of  the 
reasoning  powers  of  the  ill-informed. 

"  But,  however," — Charley  resumed — "  what  was  it  brought  up 
the  ghost  ?  Oh — I  know  !  It  was  Fred's  mother's  unshakable 
conviction  that  Dr.  Carteret  was  murdered.  I  know  she  has  that 
idea.     Because  Fred  told  the  missus." 

"  Where  did  she  get  such  a  confirmed  impression  from? 
Didn't  you  say  something  about  a  dream  ?  " 

"  Oh  yes — she  dreamt  something.  Heaven  knows  what !  But 
she  would  be  sure  to  do  that,  if  she  once  got  the  idea.  I  know 
the  way  she  broods  over  it  makes  Fred  very  unhappy.  Eegu- 
larly  gives  him  the  blues,  something  does,  anyhow.  Don't  know 
what's  got  him,  this  last  day  or  two.  Hasn't  a  word  to  throw 
at  a  dog ! "  So  they  chatted  on,  the  conversation  tending 
towards  discussion  of  the  merits  of  a  particular  vegetable  pill, 
as  a  remedy  for  nervous  depression  and  low  spirits. 

Charley's  respect  from  of  old  for  his  senior  partner  often 
led  him,  as  the  foregoing  conversation  shows,  to  a  frankness 
about  his  own  private  aft'airs  which  he  would  scarcely  have  shown 
to  anyone  else.  That  he  gained  very  little  by  his  candour  is 
true,  but  his  belief  in  the  wisdom  of  the  counsel  that  his  adviser 
would  have  yielded,  had  he  been  so  minded,  made  up  for  that. 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  371 

This  interview  left  him  convinced  that  he  had  talked  well  over 
a  good  variety  of  subjects  with  Mr.  Trymer,  and  had  been 
profitably  illuminated  on  all  of  them.  He  had  a  general  im- 
pression of  having  gone  for  advice  to  a  fountain-head,  and  got 
it.  But,  except  that  he  had  talked  freely  to  that  oracle  of  things 
he  would  not  have  taken  Jones  or  Eobinson  into  his  confidence 
about,  his  chat  with  him  was  not  much  unlike  what  it  might 
f     have  been  with  Eobinson,  or  Jones. 

When  Charley  went  to  this  gentleman's  in  the  evening,  or 
indeed  anywhere  in  town  without  Lucy,  he  did  not  go  back  to 
Wimbledon,  but  slept  at  his  old  diggings  in  the  Temple,  which 
he  had  maintained  from  sheer  conservatism.  It  was  his  prac- 
tice on  such  occasions  always  to  ring  Fred's  door-bell  on  the 
floor  above,  when  he  returned  late  at  night,  unless  indeed  the 
lateness  meant  that  next  day's  clocks  were  striking.  On  this 
occasion  he  arrived  home  just  after  midnight  and  rang  with  very 
little  expectation  that  his  friend  would  reply  to  his  summons. 
It  was  just  a  chance — no  more.  However,  a  sound  came — foot- 
steps within,  and  then  Fred,  in  darkness.  Just  returned  pre- 
sumably. 

"  Come  along  in,  old  man.  I  was  just  going  to  turn  in.  I'll 
light  up."  Fred  was  going  as  near  as  he  could  to  the  greeting 
he  would  have  given  his  friend  in  the  old  days,  before  .  .  . 
Before  what  ? 

The  gas  was  burning  in  the  bedroom,  and  Fred  was  seeking 
a  match  to  light  that  in  the  sitting-room.  It  was  just  too  dark 
to  distinguish  costume.  It  was  not  until  a  fishtail  of  flame 
hissed  into  being  that  Charley  said  "  Hullo !  "  about  Fred's 
raiment. 

"  What's  '  hullo  '  ?  "  said  he.  '•'  Oh— my  togs  !— Yes— I  haven't 
been  out.  I  cried  off.  Sent  a  wire  to  'em  not  to  expect  me. 
Didn't  feel  like  going." 

"  Won't  Mrs.  Fiztpcttitoes — or  whatever  her  name  is — won't 
she   .    .    .?" 

"  Mrs.  Fitzpatrick  Ellison — not  a  bad  shot,  considering — 
won't  she  be  offended?     Yes — probably.     Does  that  matter?" 

"  Well — ^^she's  a  human  creature,  anyhow !  But  ivliy  didn't 
you  feel  like  going  ?  " 

"  Temper,  I  suppose.  Impatience.  I  was  sorry  for  Mrs. 
Gam.  She  had  deranged  all  my  things  quite  beautifully  on  the 
bed — and  I  disappointed  her.  I  wasn't  sentimental  about  Fitz. 
She'll  get  over  it." 

Charley  ignored  Mrs.   Fitz.     What  did  she  matter?     There 


372  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

was  P'red,  with  that  strained  look  on  his  handsome  face,  and 
every  appearance  of  having  passed  an  evening  of  lonely  self- 
examination  at  the  best, — possibly  of  some  more  effectual  mental 
torment.  The  aroma  of  a  Havana  said  unmistakably  that  it 
was  not  long  extinct,  and  that  it  had  been  smoked  in  that  room 
and  no  other.  "What's  gone  wrong,  dear  boy?"  Charley  said. 
"  Something's  gone  wrong." 

Fred  roused  himself  to  a  vigorous  disclaimer.  Oh  dear  no ! — 
nothing  had  gone  wrong.  A  little  out  of  sorts,  perhaps.  Felt 
that  a  quiet  evening  would  do  him  good.  It  did,  sometimes. 
No — really  and  seriously — nothing  was  the  matter.  He  did  it 
very  well,  all  things  considered.  How  was  old  Trymer?  An 
ill-thought-out  question,  as  Charley  saw  his  partner  every  day, 
and  Fred  never  asked  after  him.  Who  else  was  there?  Not  a 
soul  but  the  family;  however,  it  was  a  better  question — it 
deflected  comment  from  his  appearance. 

"  You  see,"  Charles  said,  "  I  asked  myself.  So  I  didn't  expect 
company.  I  told  him  candidly  I  wanted  to  get  away  from  my 
august  mother-in-law,  and  he  was  very  obliging  and  sympathetic. 
It  Avas  really  all  the  better,  because  I  got  an  opportunity  of 
talking  to  him.  I  always  go  to  him  for  advice.  Because 
he  is  the  very  soundest  of  advisers.  Quite  a  tower  of 
strength." 

Fred  looked  like  a  person  who  thought  he  ought  to  look  inter- 
ested and  said,  rather  absently: — "  What  does  he  think  about — 
about  mother-in-laws?"  He  only  settled  how  this  question  was 
to  end,  half-way  through,  so  he  failed  to  suggest  that  its  answer 
was  vital  to  him. 

"  Oh — well — I  don't  know  that  he  said  any  one  definite  thing 
about  mothers-in-law,  as  such.  Nothing  one  could  exactly 
repeat.  But  there  can't  be  much  doubt  what  he  thinks.  The 
way  he  said : — '  You  can  always  run  away  from  yours  here,' 
showed  that  plain  enough.  However,  I  think  you  know,  he  looks 
on  them  as  distinctly  inevitable." 

"  A — oh  yes ! — mothers-in-law.  Inevitable !  Of  course  they 
are.  Yes — inevitable !  "  But  he  was  not  thinking  of  what  he 
was  saying. 

Charley  turned  a  curious  eye  on  him.  This  was  not  like 
Fred.  He  was  very  much  out  of  sorts,  clearly.  But  stop ! — 
was  it  not  possible  that  .  .  .  Yes,  that  must  be  it!  Charley 
hung  back  a  moment,  then  said  suddenly : — "  You've  heard  some- 
thing?— about  your  uncle?" 

It  roused   Fred.      "  Absolutely  nothing,"  said  he.      "  'What 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  373 

makes  you  think  so?"     He  was  all  on  the  alert  to  show  that 
he  was  normal.     But  he  knew  the  contrary. 

''  Only  your  manner,  dear  boy !  You  made  me  think.  But 
I'm  glad  there  is  nothing."  Fred  looked  enquiring.  ''  Why, 
don't  you  see? — it  couldn't  have  been  good,  with  a  face  like 
that!" 

''What — my  face?"  Fred  tried  a  laugh  over  this,  with  only 
moderate  success.  Then,  it  relieved  him  to  make  his  voice 
serious.  "  Of  course.  I  understand.  It  could  only  have  been 
— what  my  mother  thinks.  Or  good  news.  In  that  case  .  .  . 
you  would  have  seen  it  fast  enough,  without  telling." 

"  I  suppose  I  should."  He  kept  on  looking  at  his  friend 
reflectively,  as  though  to  get  at  the  heart  of  his  mystery;  then 
said,  suddenly : — "  1  wish  you  would  tell  me  what  the  rumpus 
is,  Fred.     I'm  sure  there's  something." 

Fred  saw  he  must  put  more  backbone  into  his  mendacity,  or 
it  wouldn't  tell.  "  I'm  all  right,"  said  he,  in  a  convincing 
manner,  as  if  he  was  really  speaking  the  truth.  "  Only  I  want 
to  get  to  bed."  He  was  taking  good  care  to  mean  what  he  said, 
for  purposes  of  veracity.  Really  capable  liars  always  do  this, 
and  he  took  a  leaf  out  of  their  book.  He  rubbed  it  in,  by  a 
crushed  yawn  behind  his  hand. 

Charley  looked  very  doubtfully  at  him,  but  had  to  surrender. 
"  If  that's  it,"  said  he ;  "  bed's  the  best  place  for  you.  Adoo, 
old  man!  "  He  was  through  the  door  and  had  closed  it  behind 
him  before  Fred  had  found  a  word  to  soften  off  the  posi- 
tion. 

And  those  footsteps  dying  on  the  stairs  were  Charley's — his 
old  friend  of  so  many  years.  And  there  was  the  shadow  of  a 
lie  between  them — of  such  a  lie !  A  few  final  words  over  the 
stair-rail  would  palliate  matters,  perhaps.  Fred  was  out  in  time, 
and  speaking  to  him  on  the  lower  landing,  just  succeeding  with 
a  rather  troublesome  latchkey. 

"  I  say,  Charley  !  " 

"Hullo — out  again?     Go  to  bed!   .    .    .   No — what  is  it?" 

"  Nothing  particular — at  least,  it  will  do  in  the  morning." 

"  Go  ahead  !  " 

"  I've  an  idea  of  taking  a  run  at  the  end  of  this  week — going 
away  for  a  change.     So  I  shouldn't  come  down,  Saturday." 

"  You're  a  mercurial  sort  of  party.  Why  this  week  ?  Wiry 
not  next  ?  " 

"  Can't  say  exactly.  Got  a  restless  nt.  That  sort  of  thing. 
If  I  wait  till  next  week  I  may  change  my  mind." 


374  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

"  You  hadn't  thought  of  going  this  morning,  in  the  train. 
At  least,  I  don't  believe  you  had." 

"  I  don't  think  I  had.  I  got  the  idea  sitting  here  thinking 
things  over.     It  came  with  the  baccy-smoke." 

"XVhere  do  you  think  of  going?" 

"  I  think  I  shall  make  it  Norway.  There's  a  very  good  boat 
for  Christiansand  on  Friday.  That's  one  of  the  reasons  for  go- 
ing this  week.  If  I  can't  get  a  passage  I  shall  have  to  stand 
it  over." 

"  Well — you  must  square  it  up  with  the  missus.  I  know  she 
particularly  wants  you  next  Saturday." 

"  All  right.  Tell  you  more  about  it  in  the  morning.  Ta, 
ta!  "  For"  Fred  felt  that  if  the  conversation  was -going  to  drift 
that  way,  he  was  best  out  of  it. 

It  was  something,  at  any  rate,  to  have  announced  his  intention 
of  taking  a  holidav  abroad,  and  that  Charlev  had  not  seemed,  on 
the  whole,  to  see  anything  very  extraordinary  in  it.  What  on 
earth,  except  his  uneasy  conscience,  should  prevent  his  taking  a 
run  on  the  Continent  for  unimpeachable  reasons?  He  could  be 
influenced  by  sane  and  ordinary  motives,  with  the  holiday  season 
so  near  at  hand.  There  was  not  the  slightest  necessity  to  go 
abroad  to  escape  from  himself.  He  could  ignore  his  wish 
to  do  so,  and  find  a  hundred  ways  of  accounting  for  a  trip  to 
the  south  of  France  or  Switzerland.  Or  perhaps  he  had 
better  stick  to  Norway,  because  it  would  be  hot,  going 
south. 

This  resolve,  to  shut  his  eyes  to  the  problems  that  were 
afflicting  his  life  until  he  had  left  the  country  for  reasons 
entirely  unconnected  with  them,  was  an  anodyne  to  the  disquiet 
of  his  soul,  and  may  have  had  a  share  in  procuring  him  a  night's 
re?t.  There  was,  however,  plenty  of  reason  that  he  should  sleep, 
for  his  accounts  in  that  quarter  were  terribly  in  arrear.  He 
waked  late,  from  dreams  of  himself  and  Charley  at  school  to- 
gether in  the  old  days,  to  find  Mrs.  Gam  knocking  at  his  bed- 
room door  with  a  message  from  Mr.  Snaith  to  say  he  had  break- 
fast ready  for  him  in  the  room  below,  and  would  he  prefer  eggs 
or  kedgeree,  because  there  was  both? 

"  Very  well.  Go  to  Norway,  by  all  means !  "  said  Charley. 
"  Do  you  all  the  good  in  the  world,  old  chap !  Wish  I  was 
coming  with  you." 

Fred  felt  all  perfidy  from  head  to  foot,  as  he  assumed  non- 
chalance to  say : — "  Wish  you  were,  old  boy  !  I  may  think  better 
of  Norway  though.     I  had  an  idea  of  getting  out  of  the  heat. 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  375 

Onl}'  some  say  it's  just  as  hot  there  as  anywhere  else,  in  July. 
And  I  believe  the  skeeters  are  diabolical." 

"  So  I've  been  told.     But  look  here !— Wlien's  the  boat?  " 

"  Saturday — early." 

"  To-night  is  your  Maida  Vale  evening,  isn't  it  ?  Well — you 
must  come  to-morrow,  or  Thursday,  or  Friday,  to  say  good-bye. 
Lucy  won't  forgive  you  if  you  don't." 

Just  what  Fred  was  afraid  of! 

The  distance  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Snaith's  suburban  residence 
from  the  centres  of  things,  often  as  its  existence  had  been  dis- 
proved a  priori,  had  asserted  itself  very  shortly  after  their 
marriage,  and  its  inconveniences  were  at  this  time  becoming 
vociferous.  One  way  of  silencing  them  and  making  evening 
visiting  a  possibility  was  for  the  lady  to  sleep  at  her  mother's, 
while  Charley  almost  invariably  preferred  to  spend  the  night 
at  his  own  old  haven  in  the  Temple.  It  was  part  of  his  system 
of  minimising  his  mother-in-law,  who  submitted  to  his  absence 
with  a  good  grace,  suggesting  that  it  was  not  entirely  unwelcome 
to  her. 

In  the  evening  of  the  story — Fred's  Maida  Vale  evening — 
Mrs.  Snaith,  having  been  driven  up  from  The  Cedars  by  her 
mother,  was  awaiting  her  husband  at  Devonshire  Place,  to  go 
with  him,  after  a  slight  refection,  to  the  Lyceum.  He  arrived 
duly,  behind  an  adequate  shirt-front  and  necktie,  but  alone, 
naturally. 

"  \Miat — vou  haven't  brouoht  him !  "  was  Lucv's  greeting  to 
her  husband,  in  a  tone  of  real  disappointment,  which  Charley 
seemed  to  share  to  the  full. 

"  No — I  wanted  the  beggar  to  chuck  his  mammy  for  once.  I 
told  him  I  should  bore  you  horribly.  But  he  wouldn't 
come.    ..." 

The  two  were  not  absolutely  alone  at  the  moment.  Probably 
had  they  been  so,  Mrs.  Snaith  would  have  concealed  her  chagrin 
even  less.  For  she  was  quite  alive  to  her  husband's  unsuspicion. 
But  an  observant  eye  was  upon  her,  that  of  Mrs.  Bannister  Stair, 
who  had  just  arrived,  to  avert  loneliness  from  her  friend  Mrs. 
HinchlifPe,  and  was  taking  mental  notes.  She  listened  carefully 
to  Charley's  continuation : — "  He's  got  a  restless  fit  on  him,  and 
wants  to  go  to  Norway.  Can't  quite  make  out  what's  the  matter 
with  him.     Something's  up." 

Lucy  appeared  taken  aback.  "  What  can  he  want  in  Norway, 
of  all  places  in  the  world  ?  "  said  she. 

"  I've  nothing  to  say  against  Norway,  if  he  chooses  to  go 


376  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  ] 

there,"  said  Charles,  refusing  to  take  sides.  "  As  far  as  the  place 
goes.  It's  the  going  I  object  to.  Why  can't  he  wait  till  going- 
away  time  conies?  He's  got  the  hump,  and  wants  a  change. 
He  spoke  of  going  early  on  Saturday."  ; 

"  Oh,  Saturday  !     Then  he  won't  come  to  us  on  Saturday."  i 

"  Xo — he  certainly  won't."  Lucy  looked  blank.  "  He'll  come 
to-morrow  or  Thursday  or  Friday."  She  appeared  relieved.  '*  I 
may  not  see  him  to-morrow,  but  he'll  write."  She  looked  blank 
again. 

"He  must  come!"  This  was  spoken  with  a  passion  beyond 
the  occasion.  But  it  pleased  Charley  that  his  wife  should  be  so 
intriguee  about  his  friend's  comings  and  goings. 

What  did  the  bystander  think,  whom  Chance  had  permitted  to 
hear  this  domestic  dialogue?  Well — Mrs.  Stair  conveyed  that 
she  acknowledged  the  beauty  of  this  family's  character;  so 
Arcadian-pastoral — so  free  from  the  taint  of  this  shocking 
World.  But  she  would  look  in  another  direction — at  the  inter- 
esting water-colour  there,  for  instance — rather  than  obtrude  her 
impressions  about  what  was  no  concern  of  hers.  She  was  an 
outsider. 

Mr.  and  ]\Irs.  Charles  drove  away  to  the  stalls  of  the  Lyceum 
after  the  slight  refection,  and  saw  a  problem-play  which  neither 
recited  its  enunciation  nor  arrived  at  Q.E.D.  They  left  Mrs. 
Charles's  august  mamma  and  her  visitor  to  a  better  developed 
refection,  announced  as  soon  as  the  house  was  clear  of  them. 

Lucy  was  looking  her  best,  and  her  husband  felt  that  his  lot 
was  indeed  an  enviable  one  to  have  such  a  wife  to  take  to  the 
play.  If  only  there  had  not  been  that  empty  seat!  For  Charley 
— humble  being  that  he  was  at  heart — never  felt  able  to  live  up 
to  the  meteoric  wife  he  had  married,  unassisted.  And  his  hand- 
some friend  rounded  up  the  position,  and  completed  it.  Not 
to  have  him  with  them  was  bad  enough,  but  to  have  an  empty 
stall  beside  them  in  which  he  should  have  been,  and  was  not, 
made  matters  worse.  Charley  had  an  uncomfortable  feeling, 
helped  by  Fred's  enigmatical  demeanour,  that  something  was 
wrong — he  couldn't  guess  what.  It  was,  however,  a  reassurance 
to  him  that  Lucy  seemed  as  little  contented  about  it  as  himself. 
For  if  it  was  not  that  that  made  her  so  very  brief  of  speech  to 
a  deserving  husband,  what  was  it?  If  it  was  Fred's  defection, 
and  this  sudden  impulse  of  his  of  a  voyage  to  Norway,  he  was 
quite  at  one  with  her — completely  in  sympathy. 

Let  anyone  who  doubts  the  possibility  of  this  state  of  mind 
reflect  that  the  actual  facts  of  the  case  were  inconceivable  by 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  377 

Charley;  and  that,  had  they  been  presented  to  him  on  any 
evidence,  however  satisfactory,  they  would  only  have  seemed  to 
him  a  grotesque  dream. 

They  were  rather  late,  owing  to  the  block  in  Piccadilly,  which 
one  always  thinks  isn't  going  to  happen,  and  which  has  never 
been  known  to  miss  its  appointment  yet.  But  they  only  lost 
a  preliminary  housemaid,  whose  outspoken,  or  rather  vociferous, 
soliloquy  wlnle  she  dusted  v,'as  a  short  sketch  of  the  leading 
characters,  schemed  by  a  playwright  who  would  not  allow  them  to 
speak  for  themselves. 

"  Oh  dear — there's  a  man  I'm  supposed  to  know.  And  I  shall 
have  to  introduce  him."  Thus  Lucy,  distinguishing  the  contents 
of  one  dress  suit  from  its  congeners  in  a  group  that  was  pre- 
ceding them  into  the  stalls. 

"Where  the  difficulty?"  said  Charley.  "Fire  away!  He 
looks  like  an  Irishman." 

"  He  is  an  Irishman, — writes  for  the  newspapers.  Irishmen 
do.  But  what  on  earth  should  possess  me  that  I  should  forget 
his  name?  Oh  dear — whatever  is  it?  O'Donoghue  ,  .  . 
O'Leary?     Something  quite  as  Irish." 

"  Call  him  O'Donoghue  and  O'Leary  then,  and  say  you 
forgot." 

"Oh  no — it  would  never  do  for  a  .  .  .  Never  mind  now! 
I'll  tell  you  after."  For  the  Irish  gentleman  was  upon  them, 
claiming  acquaintance,  and  Lucy  had  slurred  over  the  name  dif- 
ficulty by  her  sudden  perception  of  the  necessity  to  introduce 
her  husband.  He  liad  been  cut  short  off  at  Mister.  A  dis- 
composure reigned — a  magnetic  disturbance  of  the  atmosphere 
perhaps.  Charley  beamed  with  a  fixed  geniality.  He  had 
learned  from  previous  experience  the  best  attitude  to  assume 
with  antecedent  male  acquaintance  of  his  beautiful  wife.  They 
were  numerous,  he  knew.  But  she  might  at  least  have  remem- 
bered their  names ! 

This  one  dies  away,  after  a  profusion  of  sentiments  of  esteem 
from  Charles  and  Lucy,  such  as  we  all  feel,  in  crowds  for  per- 
sons of  ill-established  identity.  But,  at  plays,  when  chocolate 
abounds  between  the  Acts,  and  hardened  playgoers  smoke  in  the 
lounge  till  they  can  exasperate  you  and  me  by  coming  in  after 
the  curtain  is  up,  and  getting  in  our  line  of  siglit,  weak-spirited 
domesticated  persons  stop  in  their  places  and  await  develop- 
ments, the  more  dare-devil  among  them  going  so  far  as  to  pay 
visits  to  boxes,  preferably  containing  baronets.  Xow,  this  Irish 
gentleman,  whose  name  Lucy  suddenly  recollected  when  he  had 


378  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

got  to  his  own  stall^  a  mile  off — too  far  off  to  call  him  by  it, — 
seized  this  opportunity  to  pay  another  instalment  of  his  respects 
to  Mrs.  Charles  Snaith,  and  was  motioned  or  mesmerised  by  her 
into  the  empty  seat  beside  her.  Having  secured  him  she  said  to 
her  husband,  who  was  showing  restlessness : — "  I  know  you  want 
to  smoke,  Charles;  so  you  may  desert  if  you  like.  Go  and  have 
a  cigarette  outside,  and  then  you  won't  look  so  miserable.  Mr. 
McMurrough  will  amuse  me."  For  the  gentleman  was  that 
sub-editor  of  the  Daily  Telegraph  whom  Mr.  Moring  had  men- 
tioned two  da3'S  ago,  but  whose  name  was  not  active  enough  in 
Charles's  memory  to  revive  with  its  repetition  by  his  wife, 
although  she  had  spoken  it  audibly  to  show  she  knew  it. 

Charley,  whom  Mr.  McMurrough  had  disappointed  by  the 
purity  with  which  he  spoke  the  tongue  of  the  bloody-minded 
Saxon — for  he  had  not  a  syllable  of  brogue  to  throw  at  a  dog — 
accepted  the  suggestion  of  a  short  smoke  in  the  coulisses^  and 
only  consumed  half  a  cigarette  before  it  was  time  to  return  to 
his  place.  So  returning,  he  caught  the  fag-end  of  what  seemed 
an  earnest  conversation  between  his  wife  and  this  gentleman,  and 
was  pleased  to  note  that,  when  moved  to  speak  naturally  by 
interest  in  his  subject,  the  latter  cast  off  the  correctitudes  of  an 
acquired  cockneyism,  and  fell  back  into  the  more  musical  accent 
of  the  Celt.  But  the  curtain  was  rising,  and  people  were  shish- 
ing  and  saying  sit  down,  and  one  of  the  most  popular  of 
actresses  was  waiting  for  a  real  hush  before  beginning  to  be 
Hilda.  So  Mr.  McMurrough  had  to  get  away  with  all  speed, 
and  the  house  was  soon  absorbed  in  that  young  person's  per- 
plexities, which  a  little  common  sense  and  right  feeling  on  her 
part  and  a  deafness  to  the  needs  of  the  stage,  might  very  easily 
have  avoided. 

Said  Charles  to  his  wife,  in  her  mother's  carriage  which  had 
come  to  fetch  them : — "  \Vliat  was  the  Irish  party  so  earnest 
about  when  I  came  and  interrupted  you  and  him  ?  " 

"Mr.  McMurrough?  Oh — nothing.  lie  wasn't  earnest." 
She  seemed  a  little  taken  aback. 

"  He  was  earnest  enough  to  speak  Irish.  He  said  '  I'll  plidge 
mesilf.  I'll  kape  ut  in  mind.'  What  was  he  pledging  himself 
to?  What  was  he  going  to  keep  in  mind?"  It  was  just  a 
chance  that  he  looked  round  at  his  wife  as  he  said  this.  He 
might  have  been  lighting  a  cigar.  As  it  was,  his  eye  rested, 
the  moment  after  he  spoke,  on  a  beautiful  face  thrown  out  of 
all  composure  by  some  disturbance  of  its  owner's  mind.  "  What's 
the  rumpus,  Luce  ?  "  said  he,  innocently. 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  379 

She  turned  her  confusion  into  an  uneasy  laugh.  She  did  not 
want  to  tell  the  cause  of  that  rumpus.  But  she  could  evade  the 
difficulty  easily  enough,  surely !  This  man  was  too  docile  to  give 
trouble.  "  Silly  Charles !  "  said  she.  "  Don't  you  know  that 
one  shouldn't  ask  questions,  sometimes?  You  shouldn't  force 
me  to  tell  you  how  unfeeling  I  had  to  be  to  Mr.  McMurrough — 
I  mean  a  couple  of  years  ago." 

"  Oh — was  that  it  ?  I  see."  He  was  so  unsuspicious  that  his 
comparison  between  the  Irish  gentleman's  words  and  the  young 
lady's  way  of  accounting  for  them  hung  fire,  until  indeed  she 
had  become  quite  comfortable  in  the  thought  that  he  had  for- 
gotten them  altogether.  It  was  disappointing  to  have  him  hark 
back  on  them,  and  seek  for  explanation.  "  I  can't  see  though 
that  what  he  said  arose  out  of  the  question  before  the  house. 
Why  should  an  illigant  young  gay  female's  non-appreciation  of 
an  Irish  gentleman  lead  to  his  plidging  himself  to  anything  two 
years  after?     And  what  was  he  to  kape  in  mind?" 

"  Oh  dear — how  you  do  keep  on  worrying  over  that  man ! 
What  did  you  say  he  said  ?  "  Charles  repeated  again  the  words 
he  had  heard,  doing  more  than  justice  to  the  brogue.  Lucy  had 
by  this  time  recovered  her  self-possession.  "  I  wonder  what  it 
was  that  sounded  like  that,"  said  she.  "  It  wasn't  that.  But 
I  can't  remember  what  it  was — the  last  thing  he  said."  She 
underwent  severe  recollection,  but  could  make  nothing  of 
it. 

To  understand  why  her  husband  accepted  this  without  a  waver- 
ing of  doubt  would  be  to  know  what  is  meant  by  unswerving 
faith  in  a  blindly  worshipped  idol.  The  Calabrian  peasant  does 
not  kneel  to  Our  Lady  of  Sorrows  in  the  church  of  his  boyhood 
with  a  more  unquestioning  devotion  than  was  Charles's  to  the 
sovereign  of  his  heart.  Probably  the  contadino  has  the  best  of 
it — but  who  shall  say? 

If  Charles  had  been  on  the  stage,  he  would  at  once  have  per- 
ceived— to  make  the  piece  move — that  this  Mr.  McMurrough 
was  the  person  Mr.  ]\Ioring  had  spoken  of  two  days  since,  who 
was  responsible  for  that  newspaper  paragraph  about  Dr.  Car- 
teret. He  would  then  have  proceeded,  as  fast  as  soliloquy  could 
carry  him,  to  the  conclusion  that  his  then-^ancee  had  com- 
municated the  facts  to  that  Irishman  in  spite  of  her  solemn 
promise  of  discretion.  Being  off  the  stage,  the  only  effect  of 
the  germ  of  such  a  suspicion,  if  it  existed — was  to  establish  a 
conclusion  of  its  own  falsehood  on  the  ground  of  Lucy's  intrinsic 
veracity,    rock-bedded    on    fundamental    truth.      Such    an    idea 


380  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

passed  off  his  mind  at  once,  especially  as  he  had  not  been  giving 
his  whole  attention  to  Mr.  Moring  and  his  mind  had  taken  a  very 
loose  hold  of  the  Irish  editor's  name. 

She  knew  this  and  in  the  luxury  of  her  security  kept  the 
subject  needlessly  in  the  foreground,  wondering  what  on  earth 
it  was  that  sounded  like  what  Charles  thought  he  had  heard. 
There  was  only  one  point  she  was  quite  clear  about,  that  he  had 
heard  wrong. 

Nevertheless  her  interview  with  the  gentleman,  while  Charles 
smoked  in  the  lobby  was  somewhat  as  follows : — ''  He'll  be  very 
happy  smoking,  Mr.  McMurrough.  You're  not  to  go  with  him. 
I  want  you  here." 

He  lapsed  slightly  into  brogue.  '"  Xobody  more  delighted 
then  mesilf,"  said  he. 

"  I  want  particularly  to  speak  to  you.  You  remember  my 
telling  you  about  Dr.  Carteret,  who  disappeared?  " 

"  I  do.  No,  I  don't — Yes — of  course  I  do — Dr.  Drury  Car- 
teret!    Has  he  turned  up  again?  " 

"  Not  at  all.  He  seems  to  have  vanished.  But  I  owe  you  a 
grudge  about  him." 

"  You  owe  me  a  grudge !  " 

"  Yes — don't  pretend  you  don't  know  why." 

"  No  pretence  at  all.  Honour  bright  all  round !  What  will 
ye  be  owing  me  a  grudge  for,  then?  "  The  brogue  hovered  about 
his  tongue  as  he  said  this. 

'•  Do  you  mean  to  say  you  didn't  know  that  I  told  you  all  that 
in  the  strictest  confidence?" 

His  native  speech  began  to  get  the  better  of  him.  ''  Yiss,  to 
be  sure.     In  the  sthrictest  confidence !  " 

"  And  you  put  it  all  in  the  newspaper ! " 

"  Will  thin,  I  did.  In  the  sthrictest  confidence.  Iverybody 
we  insurrut  is  communicated  to  the  public  in  the  sthrictest  con- 
fidence." 

''  Don't  be  nonsensical !  You  know  perfectly  well  I  didn't 
want  you  to  make  a  paragraph  of  it." 

]Mr.  ]\IcMurrough  became  aware  that  the  young  lady  was  not 
to  be  trifled  with.  He  dropped  the  brogue  to  say  that  he  had 
only  supposed  the  confidence  to  be  the  usual  confidence  of  gossip, 
which  is  never  accepted  as  binding  on  its  recipient.  Indeed,  be- 
yond saying: — "Of  course  you  won't  mention  this,"  in  a  per- 
functory way  after  giving  full  particulars.  Miss  Hinchliffe  had 
done  nothing  to  secure  his  secrecy.  Mrs.  Charles  Snaith  said 
she   had.     Tlie   gentleman   was   very   apologetic,   and   promised 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  381 

never  to  do  so  any  more.     He  had  no  idea  of  getting  anybody 
in  a  row. 

Lucy  took  him  into  her  confidence.  There  was  no  row  at 
present,  but  there  might  be  if  her  husband  came  to  know  that 
the  newspaper  paragraph  was  traceable  to  her.  Would  Mr. 
]\IcMurrough  be  so  kind  as  to  give  someone  else's  name  as  hiss 
informant,  not  hers?  He  nodded  comfortably,  in  a  conclusivie 
kind  of  way.     Oh  yes — he  thoroughly  understood  ! 

They  then  talked  a  little  about  the  play,  and  a  little  about  the 
weather,  until  the  former  threatened  to  begin  again,  when  Lucy, 
seeing  her  husband  coming  back,  gave  Mr.  ^IcMur rough  a  hur- 
ried reminder  of  his  promise.  To  which  he  replied,  accentuating 
his  bona  fides  by  a  resumption  of  the  brogue,  in  the  words  that 
Charles  just  caught  as  he  arrived  to  resume  his  place,  only  just 
in  time  for  other  people  to  spoil  his  introduction  to  Act  Two, 
vScene  One. 

So  that  Lucy's  attitude  about  this  interview  in  the  carriage 
with  her  husband  was  distinctly  mendacious.  But,  at  the  time, 
with  her  living  presence  to  stand  between  him  and  a  doubt  of 
her  veracity,  such  a  doubt  was  as  impossible  to  Charles's  mind 
as  a  doubt  of  the  Xorth  Star  would  have  been  to  the  mariner 
of  old,  before  a  single  compass  had  pointed  to  anv  Pole  at 
all. 

When  they  arrived  at  the  Hinchliffe  mansion,  they  found 
Mrs.  Stair's  carriage  just  absorbing  her  at  the  door.  In  spite  of. 
a  mutual  gush  between  that  lady  and  his  wife,  expressive  of  the 
rare  benevolence  of  Destiny  in  permitting  them  a  momentary 
meeting  on  the  doorstep,  the  latter  threw  out  to  his  surprise  a. 
suggestion  that  the  former's  temper  was  ruffled.  Her  words 
were : — "  Stair's  mifi'y.  I  suppose  she  and  mamma  have  been 
quarrelling,"  to  which  he  replied : — "  H'm — she  seems  all  right 
to  me — can't  see  the  miffiness." 

She  said : — "  Chilly,  at  any  rate.  Of  course  you  can't  see. 
You  men  never  can."  Then,  with  more  interest  in  her  topic : — 
"  Xow  mind,  Charles  !  You've  got  to  make  Fred  come  to-morrow, 
whatever  he  says.  Or  next  day  at  latest.  Because  we  have 
bores  coming  on  Friday.  .  .  ,  There — that'll  do !  Good- 
night !  "  Whereupon  Charley,  nowise  damped  by  the  frustration 
of  a  farewell  kiss — in  fact  regarding  it  as  rather  charmingly 
capricious — took  his  departure  into  the  summer  night,  lighting 
a  cigar. 

If  the  observations  of  Mrs.  Stair's  carriage  retinue,  while  it 
stood  at  the  door  for  the  most  part  of  an  hour,  were  shrewdlj 

23 


382  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

made  and  well-grounded,  the  evening  she  and  her  hostess  had 
passed  together  had  not  ended  peacefully. 

For  Archibald,  the  young  man  in  attendance,  who  must  have 
cost  a  good  deal  to  dress  like  that,  put  on  record  to  Chambers 
the  coachman,  shortly  after  their  arrival  at  the  door,  that  they 
seemed  getting  on  amiably  on  the  first  floor.  Which  caused  the 
©nly  sign  of  vitality  of  which  Chambers  was  capable,  a  slight 
deflection  of  his  eyes  towards  the  house  he  had  reined  up  at. 
Otherwise  he  remained  monumental.  Archibald  added  what 
seemed  a  contradiction,  "  Amiable  as  a  house  afire,  I  should 
say !  "  But  no  one  who  is  accustomed  to  the  system  of  always 
conveying  an  idea  by  inverting  it,  the  common  method  of  a  very 
large  class  of  Englishmen,  will  be  the  least  at  a  loss  about 
Archibald's  meaning. 

Chambers  deflected  his  eyes  again,  with  the  slightest  stir  pos- 
sible of  his  smile-muscle — one  whose  mechanical  action  produced 
no  smile — and  seemed  to  try  for  the  opinion  of  the  off-horse, 
by  stroking  him  with  his  whip,  but  without  result.  Archibald 
listened  for  awhile  to  the  voice  of  an  indignant  dame,  that  was 
finding  it  way  through  an  open  window  above;  and,  when 
another  voice  took  its  place,  announced  the  change  by  saying: — 
"  That  'un's  owns,  just  come  in."  After  a  few  seconds,  he 
supplied  a  commentary.  "  Temperate  re-monstrance,  j^ou  might 
call  it."  Then,  when  the  former  voice  interrupted  emphati- 
cally : — "  Here's  old  Spitfire  back  again !  Fresh  as  a  daisy ! 
She  don't  spile  by  keeping."  He  was  the  only  contributor  to 
these  marginal  notes,  for  the  slightest  changes  in  Mr.  Chambers's 
countenance  were  the  barest  acknowledgment  of  their  value. 

On  the  whole,  a  comparison  between  them  and  Mrs.  Charles 
Snaith's  impression  that  Mrs.  Stair  was  ruffled  seems  to  point 
to  a  stormy  interview  having  taken  place  during  the  younger 
Ijady's  absence  at  the  Lyceum. 


CHAPTEE  XXV 

How  nice  it  would  be,  whenever  we  have  something  unpleasant 
to  confess  or  communicate — something  that  must  be  unwelcome 
to  the  ears  that  have  to  hear  it — that  those  ears  should  always 
be  on  a  head  we  hate.  Surely  it  would  be  better  economy  to 
inflict  all  painful  confidences  on  our  hetes-noires,  and  keep  our 
pleasant  news  for  those  we  love.  Unhappily  the  only  satisfac- 
tion we  ever  get  in  this  direction  is  in  keeping  secret  things  our 
foes  would  like  to  know.  A  short-lived  pleasure,  because  some 
other  chap  tells  them  ! 

The  idea  of  rushing  away,  and  leaving  his  mother  in  the 
dark  as  to  the  reason  why,  did  not  present  itself  to  Fred  Carteret 
as  humanly  possible.  But  then  the  other  idea,  of  telling  the 
whole  truth — and  not  only  telling  it — but  getting  her  to  believe  it 
— seemed  to  him  superhumanly  impossible.  Seriously,  how  could 
he  set  about  it?  As  he  walked  across  Regent's  Park  from  Port- 
land Road  station  the  next  evening — when  he  was  naturally 
due  at  Maida  Yale — he  mentally  sketched  out  plans  to  be  adopted 
for  approaching  the  subject.  There  was  the  vigorous,  trenchant 
plan,  somehow  thus : — "  I  wish  you  to  know  that  I  love  my 
friend's  wife,  and  have  good  reason  to  believe  that  she  loves 
me,  and  is  indifferent  to  him.  I  propose,  under  these  circum- 
stances, to  go  to  America,  and  am  taking  my  passage  to-morrow 
by  the  ..."  At  which  point  he  was  stopped  by  want  of 
information  of  day  of  sailing.  Then  there  was  the  cautious, 
delicate  method — the  approach  on  tiptoe,  as  it  were — on  these 
lines : — "  I  have  been  for  some  time  in  doubt  as  to  whether  I 
should  or  should  not  take  you  into  my  confidence  on  a  subject 
which  ..."  But  he  cancelled  this  method  on  its  merits  before 
he  got  any  farther.  Hypothetical  schemes  recommended  them- 
selves for  awhile,  beginning : — "  Wliat,  I  wonder,  would  you  say  if 
I  were  to  tell  you  .  .  .  ?  "  or  "  What  would  you  do  if  you  found 
yourself  in  my  position  ?  "  Which  last  involved  itself  in  a  ridicu- 
lous sententiousness : — "  Or  rather,  1  should  say,  what  would  you 
recommend  me  to  do  if  I  were  to  confess  to  you  that,"  etcetera, 
etcetera.  But  he  discarded  all  such  prolegomena  as  imprac- 
ticable and  unsatisfactory,  and  arrived  at  the  gate  of  his  mother's 

383 


384  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

front  garden  believing  that  when  he  repassed  it  next  day  he 
would  be  no  nearer  a  solution  of  his  difficulty. 

And  so  it  might  have  been,  but  that  Nancy  Fraser  had  written 
the  day  before  to  ask  if  Mrs.  Carteret  could  have  her  to-morrow 
instead  of  Friday,  because  of  reasons,  and  would  she  wire  reply 
if  not?  It  was  Fred's  day,  she  knew;  but  just  for  once  wouldn't 
matter.  This  referred  to  a  tradition  that  she  and  Fred  were  best 
insulated;  which  was  considered  ridiculous,  but  showed  a  strange 
vitality.  It  had  nothing  to  do  with  household  matters.  There 
was  plenty  of  room  in  the  house,  and,  indeed,  Nancy  had  long 
since  been  allotted  special  quarters  upstairs,  and  was  on  the 
footing  of  an  inmate,  almost  as  much  as  Fred. 

Thus  it  happened  that,  as  he  came  up  to  the  gate,  a  young  lady 
arrived  on  a  bicycle  and  dismounted  on  the  pavement,  having 
trespassed  thereon  over  a  dip  in  the  curb;  such  a  one  as  the 
bicyclist  turns  to  account  on  familiar  ground.  She  took  an 
apologetic  tone  in  her  greeting  to  Fred,  saying  as  she  shook 
hands : — "  I'm  sorry  it's  me.  I  couldn't  make  it  Friday,  this 
week.     But  it  shan't  occur  again." 

"Well,  but-^why?"  said  Fred.  And  he  really  meant  the 
question,  for  he  had  gradually  merged  his  bygone  antipathy  to 
this  young  woman  in  gratitude  for  her  devotion  to  his 
mother. 

She  left  some  essential  out  of  the  conversation,  and  jumped 
at  once  to : — "  Oh,  then  it  wasn't  that !  "  with  all  the  honesty 
of  her  hazel  eyes  fixed  thoughtfully  upon  him.  Whereupon  he 
naturally  asked — what  was  it  that  it  wasn't?  To  which  her 
reply  was  : — "  Never  mind !  .  .  .  However,  I'm  glad  if  you're 
not  disgusted.  I  thought  perhaps  you  were."  She  declined 
assistance  in  getting  the  bicycle  into  deposit,  and  he  went  into 
the  house,  to  be  greeted  by  his  mother  from  an  upper  landing 
with: — "Is  that  you,  Fred?  ...  I  thought  it  was.  Nancy's 
coming,  instead  of  to-morrow.  I  hope  you  won't  mind."  He 
answered  the  question  first,  with: — "Why  on  earth  should  I 
mind?"  and  then  said  casually  that  he  had  seen  her — she  was 
outside — and  went  on  into  the  drawing-room.  Tlie  dachshund 
followed  him,  having  run  to  the  first  sound  of  his  latchkey  so  as 
to  prevent  anything  irregular.  The  cat  rose  for  a  moment  on 
his  entry,  for  civility;  then  stretched  herself,  and  pivoted  to  a 
convenient  attitude  for  getting  a  little  more  sleep.  He  read 
the  paper. 

Nancy  passed  straight  upstairs  to  Mrs.  Carteret  in  her  bed- 
room, and  was  greeted  with : — "  Of  course  I  didn't  wire,  dear 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  385 

child !  Why  should  I  ?  .  .  .  Well — no  doubt  it's  nicer  to  have 
you  and  Fred  separate.  It  goes  farther.  .  .  .  You've  seen 
him  ?  " 

The  young  lady  did  not  at  once  reply  verbally.  She  nodded ; 
quite  six  times,  perhaps  more.  Then  she  said : — "  Oh  yes,  I've 
seen  him.     But  ..." 

"But  what?"  said  Mrs.  Carteret. 

"  But  something's  the  matter." 

"  Something's  the  matter  ?  "  A  terrified  look  came  upon  her 
face. 

Nancy  saw  it,  and  wished  she  had  not  blurted  out  her  impres- 
sion like  that.  She  ought  not  to  have  forgotten  the  dread  that 
always  hung  upon  her  friend's  life.  But  remember ! — it  was 
nearly  two  years  since  the  tragedy.  "  Not  that,  Madrina  dear," 
said  she  quickly,  using  a  name  that  she  had  found  for  her  some 
while  since,  and  that  had  caught  on.  "  At  least,  I  don't  think 
it  was  that — not  what  you  thought  it  was." 

Mrs.  Carteret's  alarm  died  down.  "  I  think  not  cither,"  said 
she,  "  by  the  way  he  spoke  from  downstairs  Just  now.  But  I  am 
always  fancying  the  news  will  come  that  they  have  found  it." 

"  Some  news  about  Mm?"  Nancy  wanted  to  soften  away  the 
grisliest  interpretation  of  her  words. 

But  she  would  not  have  it.  "  No.  Found  the  body !  "  said 
she,  firmly.     "  Well — it  would  be  something  to  know." 

"  I  don't  think  it  can  be  that,"  said  Nancy.  "  He  would  have 
told  me.  There  was  plenty  of  time."  Then  she  cast  about  to 
find  something  that  would  do  to  account  for  Fred's  expression 
and  could  find  nothing  better  than: — "Perhaps  Mrs.  Snaith's 
baby's  dead.  They  do  die  like  a  shot  sometimes,  poor  little 
parties !     I  hope  that  isn't  it." 

"  I  hope  not,  I'm  sure,"  said  ]\Irs.  Carteret.  She  at  least  had 
no  suspicion  of  the  facts,  to  help  her  son  to  a  full  disclosure  of 
them.  The  story  is  not  so  confident  about  Nancy.  She  may 
have  had  one  of  her  shrewd  inspirations,  even  from  that  short 
interview  with  him  at  the  gate. 

She  certainly  had  one  during  dinner.  For  when  they  had 
left  Fred  to  himself  and  his  cigar,  and  the  drawing-room  door 
had  been  closed — after  a  certain  amount  of  obstructiveness  from 
Liebig,  who  refused  to  go  in  or  out — she  turned  to  her  com- 
panion, saying : — "  There,  did  you  see  ?  " 

"  See  what  ?     Oh,  he's  no  worse  than  usual." 

"  I  didn't  mean  the  dog.  I  meant  him.  I'm  sure  something's 
the  matter." 


386  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

"  Do  you  know,  I  think  you  must  be  mistaken.  I'm  sure 
he  would  have  said." 

"  Not  with  me  there !  "  Nancy  shook  her  head  continuously, 
with  a  firm  conviction.  "  Of  course  he  would  have  told  if  it 
had  been  the  baby.  That's  why  I  asked  him."  This  referred 
to  an  early  phase  of  dinner,  when  she  had  pressed  for  informa- 
tion on  the  point,  eliciting  from  Fred  that  the  said  baby  was 
all  right,  but  very  powerful  and  self-willed;  with  particulars 
of  a  visit  he  and  his  father  had  paid  him  on  Sunday  morning. 

Then  she  wanted  to  say  more,  but  had  to  stop  while  Jane 
brought  in  coffee  and  died  away.  Then  Mrs.  Carteret  wanted 
an  end  to  a  fractured  sentence.  "  You're  the  last  .  .  ,  some- 
thing  ,    .    .  ?  "  said  she. 

'•  I'm  the  last  person  he  would  like  to  know  anything  about 
it.     If  I'm  right !     I  mean,  at  least,  I'm  one  of  the  last  people." 

Mrs.  Carteret  said,  with  her  beautiful  eyes  fixed  thoughtfully 
on  her  young  friend : — "  I  wonder  what  the  child  means."  This 
treated  Nancy  as  out  of  hearing.  She  went  on  as  to  listening 
ears : — "  You've  got  it  into  your  foolish  noodle  that  the  boy's 
in  love  again.     Isn't  that  it?  " 

"  Well — it  is  and  it  isn't.  ...  Do  you  know,  I'm  sorry  I 
spoke  ?  " 

"  Why  do  you  suppose  Fred  would  so  particularly  object  to 
your  knowing  about  his  love-affairs?  Because  of  Cintra,  I 
suppose." 

"  No — Cintra  doesn't  come  in.  .  .  .  Well,  I  don't  know. 
Cintra  does,  in  a  sense.  //  I'm  right.  Only  mind  you,  it  may 
be  all  nonsense !  "  She  seemed  extremely  anxious  to  lay  the 
utmost  possible  stress  on  her  own  fallibility. 

Mrs.  Carteret  looked  uncomfortable.  "  Why  did  you  change 
round?"  said  she.  "I  mean — what  sense  does  Cintra  come  in, 
in?"     A  painful  possibility  had  crossed  her  mind. 

The  girl's  cheeks  were  changing  colour,  making  her  eyes  all 
the  brighter.  "  Oh  dear !  "  said  she.  "  I  am  so  sorry  I  spoke. 
.  .  .  Why,  of  course  !  Because  it  would  make  Cit  seem  to  have 
been  in  the  right  all  along.  You  remember  that  day  when  we 
hiked  over  to  lunch — the  first  time  we  saw  Lucy  Hinchliffe  .  .  . 
I  told  you  .    .    .  ?  " 

"  Oh  dear  yes.     T  remember  perfectly." 

"  And  how  Cit  flew  into  a  towering  passion  on  the  way  home. 
I  told  you  after,  didn't  I    .    .    .  ?  " 

"  Yes.     But  how  does  that   .    .    .  ?  "  ^ 

"  How  does  that  bring  Cit  in?     Oh,  don't  you  see?" 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  387 

"  Yes — no !  No,  I  don't."  The  painful  possibility  was 
growing.  She  said  after  a  pause,  quickly  and  uneasily : — 
"  Nancy  dear,  would  you  mind  telling  me  at  once  exactly  what 
you  mean  ?  " 

Nancy  rushed  the  position.  "  Why — see  how  continually  Fred 
is  at  The  Cedars.  Every  Saturday  afternoon  and  the  whole 
of  Sunday."  Then  she  saw  the  effect  of  her  words,  and  would 
have  recalled  them.  "  Oh,  Madrina  .  .  .  darling !  See — see 
what  I've  done !     And  it  may  be  all  a  mistake,  all  the  time." 

For  Mrs.  Carteret,  hurriedly  putting  down  the  coffee-cup  she 
was  raising  to  her  lips — and  it  tinkled  with  the  shaking  of  her 
hand — had  turned  very  pale  and  sunk  back  in  her  chair.  Nancy 
was  beside  her  in  an  instant,  caressing  her  and  trying  at  any 
cost  to  get  her  Avords  unsaid.  It  was  her  fault.  \Yhat  right 
had  she  to  think  such  a  dreadful  thing?  She  ought  to  have 
known  it  would  be  impossible  for  Fred  to  ...  to  take  some 
course,  presumably,  which  did  not  lend  itself  to  description  in 
words,  as  she  hung  fire  over  it  and  said,  in  preference : — "  Of 
course  it  was  what  put  Cit's  back  up  so  two  years  ago  that  set 
me  on  thinking  it."  And  seemed  to  find  in  that  refuge  from 
her  own  sinister  conviction. 

But  it  was  not  a  very  safe  haven.  Mrs.  Carteret  recovered 
her  customary  self-possession,  saying : — "  Perhaps  Cintra  was 
right  after  all,  and  wiser  than  we  thought.  These  things  do 
happen,  we  know.  And  I  don't  see  how  they  can  be  avoided, 
unless  every  man  who  marries  an  attractive  woman  divorces  all 
his  male  friends." 

Nancy  appeared  anxious  to  deal  out  blame  justly.  ''  I  can't 
see  that  Cit  was  right  in  one  thing,"  she  said.  "  I  do  not  be- 
lieve that  Lucy  Snaith  is  half  as  minxish  as  she  made  out 
And  a  good  deal  turns  on  minxishncss  in  a  thing  of  this  sort." 
The  gravity  of  the  speaker  was  as  great  as  if  she  had  been 
moving  the  reduction  of  a  Bishop's  salary.  .Mr&.  Carteret  could 
not  help  smiling  at  it,  she  called  her  a  dear  goose,  and  left  the 
subject : — "  Don't  let's  jump  at  conclusions,  before  we  know," 
said  she.     And  Nancy  said  no  more. 

Fred  was  a  long  time  over  that  cigar — longer  than  usual.  He 
apologised,  saying  it  wouldn't  pull.  This  may  have  been  that 
he  wished  to  minimise  Nancy ;  so  his  mother  thought.  Hrs 
personal  criticisms  of  her  had  no  weight  in  this;  it  was  merely 
the  fact  of  her  having  been  so  nearly  his  sister-in-law.  Possibly 
it  was  the  same  feeling  which  prompted  her  to  go  away  to  bed, 
less  than  twenty  minutes  after  his  appearance.     Then  the  soii 


388  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

and  mother  were  left  alone,  and  he  knew  by  her  manner  that 
in  a  moment  she  would  speak  of  the  thing  that  was  preying  on 
his  heart.  The  way  in  which  she  said  the  one  word  "  Fred !  " 
was  enough  for  this. 

"  What — Mammy  dearest  ?  "  He  was  looking  through  the 
window  that  stood  open  on  the  balcony,  letting  in  the  summer 
night ;  so  that  his  back  was  towards  her.  He  did  not  turn 
round. 

She  went  nearer  to  him  and  threw  an  arm  round  his  neck — 
drew  his  face  round  to  her  lips  and  kissed  it.  "  Tell  me  the 
whole  truth,  darling  boy ! "  said  she.  "  Tell  me  everything. 
Come  out  and  tell  me  in  the  dark." 

It  was  easier  somehow,  that  way,  and  he  was  grateful  to  her. 
They  went  out  on  the  balcony,  which  was  wide  enough  for  chairs. 
Two  were  there,  but  he  preferred  leaning  over  the  balustrade. 
"  You  know  that  1  shall  have  to  go  away  ?  "  said  he.  So  con- 
fident was  he  that  the  thing  had  come  to  her  knowledge,  though 
how  and  why  it  should  have  done  so  was  a  mystery  to  him,  that 
he  jumped  at  once  beyond  the  subject  to  its  consequences. 

"  Suppose  we  talk  about  that  afterwards.  Tell  me  first 
exactly  what  has  happened.  Eemember — I  don't  know!  I  only 
guess."  She  felt  that  it  was  risky,  this  pressing  for  particulars. 
But  it  was  best  to  be  courageous.  For,  after  all,  she  must  know 
in  the  end. 

"What  has  happened?"  said  he,  dreamily.  "Strictly  speak- 
ing, nothing  has  happened.  But  I  cannot  remain  here.  My 
life  must  pass  somewhere  else.  I  came  here  to-day  meaning  to 
tell  you  how  things  stand." 

"  Yes — that  is  right.  Tell  me  more."  She  was  much  easier 
at  heart  for  these  few  words. 

"  How  can  I  live  near  my  friend,  when  his  wife  is  .  .  . 
what  she  is  ...  to  me?  How  can  I  deprive  him  of  her,  when 
he  is  .  .  .  Charley?  I  can  only  go — get  away  out  of  sight. 
And  yet   ..." 

"  And  yet  what  ?  " 

"And  yet,  if  I  do  that,  how  shall  I  have  behaved  to  her?" 

His  mother  began  to  doubt  if  her  ease  of  mind  had  not  been 
premature,  after  all.  "  I  thought  3'ou  said,"  said  she,  "  that 
nothing  had  happened." 

"  I  see  what  you  mean.  Oh  no — nothing  has  happened,  in 
ihat  sense.  All  the  blessed  commandments  are  intact.  But  I 
must  begone,  for  all  that.  And  how  much  the  happier  will  she 
be,  by  my  departure  ?  " 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  389 

"  You  foolish  boy !  "  Her  voice  had  real  relief  in  it,  this 
time,  however.  "  Look  here  now !  Suppose  you  come  away 
from  that  paling,  and  sit  down.  .  .  .  Yes — like  that — opposite 
me.  Now  tell  me,  please,  exactly  what  has  happened.  No  non- 
sense, you  know !  " 

It  was  rather  difficult  to  tell  a  story  that  really  was  poet's 
work,  or  dramatist's,  as  if  it  had  been  an  inventory  of  goods,  or 
an  attestation  before  a  Court  of  Justice,  or  anything  with  tactile 
values  in  it  for  the  practical  mind  to  lay  hold  of.  But  Fred 
succeeded  fairly  well,  his  hesitations  often  explaining  points  his 
attempts  at  lucidity  had  only  obscured.  He  was  a  little  taken 
aback  that  his  mother  should  say  "  Of  course !  "  and  "  Nat- 
urally !  "  more  than  once  when  he  conceived  that  he  was  nar- 
rating something  peculiar  and  recondite,  foreign  to  human  ex- 
perience. Especially  so,  when  having  carried  his  narrative  up 
to  that  final  interview  with  Lucy  on  the  Sunday  night,  he  had 
flinched  from  its  climax,  preferring  to  leave  it  to  the  imagination 
of  his  hearer.-  For  he  was  quite  disconcerted  when  she  supplied 
it  for  him,  saying: — "  And  then  I  suppose  you  kissed  her?  "  with 
perfect  cahnness,  as  if  such  trespasses  were  written  on  every  page 
of  human  history. 

She  continued,  as  though  a  result  so  inevitable  called  for  no 
further  comment : — ''  Well  then  !  What  did  she  say  after  that  ?  " 
and  seemed  to  expect  a  continuation  of  the  story. 

But  he  said : — "  Nothing.  We  went  out  on  the  lawn,  to  the 
others.  In  fact,  we  have  hardly  spoken  since.  She  was  only 
just  coming  down  to  breakfast  when  Charley  and  I  went  off  to 
catch  the  nine-thirty.  Of  course  I  have  been  at  my  diggings 
ever  since  then." 

Mrs.  Carteret  almost  laughed.  "  What  an  absurd  boy  my  son 
is !  "  said  she.  "  Just  fancy !  He  kisses  a  lady,  and  because  she 
lets  him,  he  takes  for  granted  that  she  is  ready  to  throw  her 
husband  and  her  baby  over — and  the  world's  good  opinion, 
whatever  it's  worth — and  to  give  herself  away  to  him !  Do  you 
suppose  now,  soberly  and  seriously   ..." 

Fred  struck  in.  "  Yes,  I  do  suppose,  soberly  and  seriously. 
I  mean,  that  what  I  know,  I  know.  We  understand  each  other. 
Think  of  what  I  had  just  told  her.  All  I  had  said,  mind  you, 
was  about  herself,  and  I  was  only  keeping  back  the  name.  It  is 
all  quite  clear." 

Mrs.  Carteret  considered.  Fred's  tale  to  Lucy  had  been,  it 
appeared,  of  how  a  crazy  passion  for  some  woman,  unnamed,  had 
broken  his  allegiance  to  Cintra  Fraser,  and  she  had  pressed  him 


390  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

to  say  who  this  woman  was.  Then  see ! — all  in  a  moment  she 
finds  herself  caught  in  his  arms,  and  kissed.  What  was  an  im- 
partial bystander  to  think?  On  the  whole,  Fred's  mother 
inclined  to  the  belief  that  this  unfortunate  development  was 
mutual,  and  moreover  that  that  young  lady  had  been  perfectly 
conscious  of  the  position  for  some  time  past.  But  she  knew 
that  any  suggestion  to  this  effect  would  only  offend  her  son's 
chivalrous  instincts.  So  she  held  her  tongue.  She  saw  that 
any  declaration  of  the  feeling  that  was  creeping  over  her  of 
detestation  for  the  woman  who  had  enslaved  him,  would  only 
destroy  whatever  chance  remained  of  weaning  him  of  his  in- 
fatuation before  it  led  to  absolutely  disastrous  consequences. 
She  determined  not  even  to  reason  with  him  on  the  subject. 
She  felt,  however,  that  the  more  clearly  she  kept  before  him  how 
grievous  a  wrong  he  was  doing  to  the  old  friend  whom  he  all 
the  while  professed  to  love,  the  better  was  the  chance  of  his 
shaking  off  his  madness,  and  finding  a  resource  against  it  in  a 
healthier  love  for  .  .  .  there  her  thoughts  paused  a  moment 
before  adding : — "  For  a  better  woman  than  Lucy  Snaith."  The 
words  came  to  her  mind  though,  distinctly.  And  with  them 
an  image  of  the  girl  and  her  eyes;  such  a  one  as  Browning 
chooses  to  present  of  the  woman  at  whose  door  he  lays  all 
the  mischief  in  that  poem  of  his — you  know  which?  Most  of  its 
readers  pity  her  least  of  the  three. 

"  Do  you  know,  darling  boy,"  said  she,  after  a  silence,  "  what 
I  am  thinking  of?  I  am  thinking  of  poor  Charles  Snaith  when 
he  comes  to  know  of  this.    ..." 

Fred  gave  a  moan  as  of  sudden  pain.  "  Mother — Mother !  " 
he  cried.     "  For  God's  sake— don't!  " 

"  But  it  must  come." 

"  That's  the  worst  of  it." 

"  It  must  come,  and  you  will  have  to  face  it." 

"  I  shall  have  to  face  it.  .  .  .  Charley ! "  As  the  name 
came  from  his  lips,  without  any  place  for  it  in  his  speech,  his 
mother  could  hear  in  its  utterance  what  it  meant  to  the  speaker. 
What  memories  of  school  and  college,  of  boyliood  from  child- 
hood, of  manhood  till  this  saddest  hour  for  both !  Such  memo- 
ries were  upon  him  now,  night  and  day.  And  the  hardest  to 
bear  of  all  were  those  of  the  early  time. 

She  knew  the  cruelty  of  her  words,  and  that  they  must  cut 
him  to  the  soul.  But  she  knew  also  how  hopeless  would  be  any 
attempt  to  make  him  see  this  idol  of  his  as  she  saw  her.  She 
was  playing  for  the  only  chance,  in  thus  dragging  him  face  to 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  391 

face  with  his  treason  against  his  friend.  And  her  silence  about 
the  woman  who  was  causing  it  was  keeping  her  in  touch  with 
him,  while  free  speech  of  her  thought  of  her  might  make  them 
drift  apart.  Better  anytliing  than  that.  "  Have  you  thought  of 
his  child,  left  without  a  mother?  Think  of  the  tale  that  father 
will  have  to  tell  him — or  to  keep  him  in  the  dark  about — when 
he  comes  to  be  of  an  age  to  understand." 

"  Mother,  for  Heaven's  sake  have  pity !  You  cannot  make 
things  better.     Do  not  make  them  worse !  " 

"  I  am  speaking  only  of  what  must  be,  that  you  may  not 
deceive  yourself.  That  baby  will  in  a  few  years  be  old  enough 
to  ask — why  he  has  no  mamma,  like  other  children.  And  his 
father  will  have  but  one  answer  to  give  him.  He  will  have  to 
say : — '  It  was  because  my  tried  friend,  who  was  dearer  to  me 
than  my  brother,  played  me  false  and  left  me  broken- 
hearted, in  a  home  that  both  of  us  had  made  his,  as  much  as 
mine.' " 

"  No— no — no  no!  A  thousand  times — no!  It  shall  never 
come  to  that."  He  choked  back  excitement  that  would  have 
been  relief,  and  his  effort  only  made  what  he  sought  to  conceal 
more  manifest. 

How  his  mother  pitied  him !  But  she  had  the  right  of  it — 
to  press  her  views  of  the  case,  cost  him  what  it  might.  She  was 
sure  of  that.  Whichever  side  he  looked  at  it  from,  he  must  needs 
go  half-mad  over  it.  Well — at  whatever  cost  to  himself  in  pain 
present  or  to  come,  let  him  choose  the  course  freest  from  dis- 
honour !  She  almost  felt  her  breath  fail  her  as  she  put  to 
him  the  unanswerable  question  : — "  But  how  can  you  avoid  it  ?  " 
It  seemed  too  cruel. 

"  How  ?  "  he  repeated.  "  I  told  you.  I  shall  have  to  go  away. 
My  life  must  be  passed  somewhere  else.  I  know  it  now."  Then 
more  quietly,  but  rather  as  though  the  strain  of  his  excitement 
had  exhausted  him : — "  Charley  shall  never  know  the  reason 
why." 

Stop  it  at  that!  That  was  Mrs.  Carteret's  feeling.  Beware 
of  a  single  word  of  the  position  of  that  woman — she  was  already 
'•'  that  woman,"  you  see  ! — while  his  life  passed  somewhere  else ! 
Could  she  do  anything,  here  and  now,  to  make  this  resolution  of 
his  a  fixed  one?  Yes,  she  could.  And  if  she  saw  the  oppor- 
tunity, she  would. 

A  short  lull  followed  his  last  words,  and  seemed  to  ratify 
them.  Then  she  said  quietly : — "  Yes — that  will  be  the  best 
way.    Have  you  thought  where  you  can  go,  at  all?  " 


392  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

"  No.  I  haven't  thought.  I  don't  know.  As  far  as 
possible." 

"  Must  it  be  so  far?     I'm  sorry." 

"  Does  it  make  any  difference  ?  " 

"  It  might,  if  an  idea  that  crossed  my  mind    ..." 

"  I  said  I  hadn't  thought — but  perhaps  I  had.  In  a  vague 
kind  of  way.  I  had  a  notion  yesterday  that  Xorway  woukl  do. 
But  I  think  I  prefer  Canada  or  the  States.  Possibly  San  Fran- 
cisco.    What  was  your  idea  ?  " 

"  Oh,  nothing !  A  freak  of  fancy.  But  it  would  be  out  of  the 
question.     San  Francisco  would  be  too  far." 

"  Too  far  for  what?     What  was  your  idea?  " 

But  she  wanted  the  same  idea  to  occur  to  him.  So  she  only 
answered,  rather  wide  of  the  mark  apparently: — "The  great 
trouble  to  me  would  be  that  you  would  be  so  far  out  of  my 
reach.     Anyhow,  the  nearer  the  better." 

"  In  England  won't  do.  I  must  be  far  enough  off  to 
forget." 

"  Then  we  have  to  bid  each  other  good-bye.  There  are  no  two 
ways.     If  anywhere  in  England  would  have  done   ..." 

"  Quite  impossible !  How  could  I  cry  off  going  to  see  Charley, 
if  there  were  only  a  day's  journey  between  ns  ?  " 

"  I  see.  It  is  so.  I  could  have  come  to  you,  though,  that  way. 
But,  however — what  vi  usthe.    .    ,  !  " 

He  finished  the  sentence  for  her: — "Must!"  Then  the  sug- 
gestions she  had  been  throwing  out  bore  fruit.  For  he  said  sud- 
denly : — "  Do  you  know  what  I  was  hoping  you  would  say  your 
idea  was?  .  .  .No?  Well  then — that  you  would  come  too. 
Do,  Clammy  dearest !  Shut  the  house  up  and  come  away.  .  .  . 
But  I'm  afraid  that  wasn't  your  idea." 

"It  was  very  vague — my  idea !  "  She  half  admitted  the  idea 
too — so  Fred  thought — even  though  she  shied  off  it  a  moment 
later.  "  Oh  no !  I  am  too  old  for  travelling  about,  at  my  time 
of  life !  "  Her  manner  said  it  would  never  do  to  think  any 
more  of  that!  And  all  the  time  she  was  hoping  that  her  son 
would  not  be  put  off  by  it. 

If  anything  it  made  him  more  in  love  with  the  plan,  or  seemed 
to  do  so.  He  derided  the  idea  of  her  being  too  old  for  travelling. 
She  must  come;  he  could  not  leave  her  alone,  and  go  away  he 
must.  He  was  dominated  at  the  moment  by  an  eagerness  to 
escape  from  the  position  of  a  traitor.  All  the  foreground  of  his 
mind  was  filled  with  the  image  of  his  friend,  and  the  ruin  and 
misery  he  was  going  to  cause  him.     It  had  power  for  the  moment 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  393 

to  banish  even  the  thought  of  that  interview  under  the  stars — 
of  Lucy  herself,  so  near  him.     But  only  for  the  moment. 

In  her  secret  heart  his  mother  rejoiced  at  this.  Once  com- 
mitted to  a  course  that  would  take  him  out  of  the  zone  of  "  that 
woman's  "  influence,  he  would  not  go  back  upon  it.  Least  of 
all  would  he  do  so  if  his  resolve  to  go  abroad  was  confirmed  by 
the  knowledge  that  his  mother,  at  his  own  invitation,  was  ware- 
housing valuables  and  buying  an  outfit  to  accompany  him.  If 
it  came  to  that,  it  would  be  the  seal  or  stamp  on  his  compact 
with  himself  to  place  his  friend's  interest  above  his  own,  even 
at  the  cost  of  the  woman's  happiness.  Indeed,  why  should  Mrs. 
Carteret  fret  about  that?  As  if  Mistress  Lucy  did  not  know 
perfectly  well  what  she  was  about,  all  the  time ! 

It  was  safest,  now  that  Fred  had  committed  himself  definitely 
to  leaving  the  country,  to  say  nothing  that  would  revive  the 
question.  She  took  it  for  settled  that  it  would  be  so,  but  had 
just  enough  misgiving  on  the  point  of  whether  he  would  change 
his  mind,  to  keep  off  anything  that  would  give  him  an  oppor- 
tunity of  doing  so.  In  fact,  she  thought  it  would  be  best  to 
change  to  an  entirely  different  topic,  and  there  was  one  that  was 
still  sure,  as  between  her  and  her  son,  to  cancel  every  other. 

"  By  the  by,"  said  she,  "  I  never  told  you.  I  had  a  letter  from 
Mrs.  Orpen.     She  is  going  to  be  married." 

"  What — Orpey  Porpey !     Who's  she  going  to  marry  ?  " 

"  Foolish  boy — fancy  your  asking  that !  Why — you  were  here 
when  she  brought  him  here!     Then,  you  know." 

"  They  didn't  say  anything  about  getting  married,  then." 

"Why  should  they?  But  one  has  one's  eyes,  and  can  see 
things.  I  thought  them  very  transparent.  Mrs.  Threepwell 
she'll  be." 

"  I  recollect  him.  Chop-jawed  humbug !  But  what  has  kept 
them  hanging  about  so  long?  That's  a  year  ago — two  years 
nearly." 

"  I  suppose  they  have  waited  for  him  to  have  the  mastership." 

"  I  thought  he  had  that,  a  long  time  ago.  Have  they  been 
going  on  without  a  headmaster  ?  "  It  was  a  sign  of  how  Time 
was  chilling  the  memory  of  the  vanished  man  that  Fred  could 
ask  this  question  without  any  vivid  consciousness  of  the  degree 
to  which  it  must  grate  on  his  mother.  He  heard  it,  an  instant 
later,  in  the  sound  of  her  voice. 

"  I  knew  it  must  be,  sometime,"  said  she.  "  They  put  it  off 
as  long  as  they  could.  There  was  some  sort  of  temporary 
arrangement   ...  in    case   ..."      A    contingency    hard    to 


394  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

speak  of  stopped  her,  but  she  recovered  in  a  moment.  '*'  Onlv — 
why  should  I  shrink  from  speaking  of  it?  \Miy  should  I  mind 
who  knows  ?  " 

''  I'm  not  sure,  Mother  dear,  that  I  quite  understand." 

"  I  know  that  he  was  killed.    Yes — murdered !  " 

Fred  protested  in  an  undertone.  "  You  are  convinced."  For 
he  could  not  acquiesce  outright  in  the  claim  to  knowledge. 

"  If  you  like.  It  is  only  one  word  instead  of  another.  So 
long  as  it  means  that  I  am  sure  about  it,  I  do  not  care  which  you 
call  it.     I  am  convinced." 

Fred  had  nothing  to  say.  After  all,  do  we  not  hang  men, 
every  day,  because  a  jury  is  convinced?  How  often  do  we  know 
— even  as  well  as  we  know  geometrical  truth — that  a  murder 
has  been  committed  ? 

Mrs.  Carteret  continued,  quietly  enough,  but  with  the  same 
sound  in  her  voice : — '"  I  said  the  same,  thought  the  same,  when 
Mr.  Trymer  told  us  we  could  not  expect  letters  of  administration 
in  less  than  seven  years,  as  there  was  no  absolute  proof  of  your 
uncle's  death." 

This  referred  to  a  subject  of  frequent  contention — or  at  least 
argument — between  the  mother  and  son:  the  deadlock  which  the 
strange  circumstances  had  occasioned  in  the  disposition  of  Dr. 
Carteret's  worldly  affairs.  His  will  had  been  opened  and  read, 
without  a  word  of  protest  from  any  relative,  some  six  months 
after  his  disappearance.  But,  as  is  usual  in  such  cases,  adminis- 
tration had  been  refused  until  definite  proof  was  forthcoming 
of  his  death. 

Fred  immediately  utilised  his  mother's  reference  to  it  as  an 
engine  of  Hope.  "  Yes — and  for  once  the  Court  of  Chancery 
was  right.  There  is  no  proof.  And  not  only  that,  but  the 
circumstances  are  such  that  it  is  almost  morally  certain  that 
proof  of  his  death  would  have  been  forthcoming — certainly 
would  if  he  had  been,  as  you  think   ..." 

"  Murdered."  She  supplied  the  word.  It  was  scarcely  ever 
spoken  but  by  -herself. 

"  Exactly.  Xow,  Mother  dear,  only  look  at  this.  Improb- 
able as  it  seems  that  a  sane  responsible  man  like  Uncle  Dru 
should  voluntarily  absent  himself  from  his  employment  and 
occupations,  friends,  relatives — everything  and  everybody — is  his 
doing  so  one  whit  less  improbable  than  that  he  should  be  .  .  . 
made  away  with   ..." 

"  I  understand." 

"...   And  the  deed  so  successfuUv  concealed  that  no  clue  to 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  395 

the  mystery  has  come  to  light — in  over  a  year  and  a  half, 
isn't  it? — yes!  For  my  part,  I  think  the  last  far  the  most 
improbable." 

Mrs.  Carteret  only  shook  her  head.  "  We  gain  nothing  by 
going  over  and  over  it,  Fred  dear !  "  said  she.  But  something 
had  been  gained,  for  her,  by  the  revival  of  the  painful  subject. 
For  the  stress  of  it  had  dragged  Fred's  mind  away  from  his 
■own  trouble,  and  kept  him  from  recanting  his  resolution  to 
take  the  only  step  to  escape  from  the  tragedy  that  seemed  to  be 
hanging  over  him  if  he  remained  in  his  present  surroundings. 
And  he  had  bound  himself,  as  it  were,  to  this  course  by  his 
urgent  invitation  to  her  to  accompany  him. 

This  long  talk  of  theirs  had  lasted  till  past  midnight,  and 
Mrs.  Carteret  had  reason  on  her  side  in  saying  that  go  to  bed 
they  must,  or  Heaven  knew  when  they  would  be  up  in  the 
morning.  Fred  departed  downstairs,  and  she  said  good-night 
;affectionately  to  him  and  sought  her  own  quarters  on  the  floor 
above. 

She  had  to  pass  Nancy's  door.  It  ojDened  furtively  and  let 
its  occupant's  voice  through,  saying  in  a  whisper : — "  Is  he  gone 
■down?  " 

"  Yes,  dear,  he  won't  hear  you.  But  let  me  in  and  I'll  tell 
jou."  She  passed  into  the  room,  thinking  what  an  injustice  this 
girl  did  herself  in  screwing  her  hair  up  so  tight  all  day,  when 
such  a  nocturnal  deluge  was  possible.  "  You've  never  been  to  bed, 
JOU  naughty  child." 

"  No — I've  been  waiting  to  hear.     Was  it  what  we  thought?  " 

"  I'm  afraid  so.     I  mean,  I'm  afraid  it's  gone — rather  far !  " 

"  Oh,  not  too  far! — not  too  far  to  back  out?  " 

Mrs.  Carteret  wondered,  as  she  looked  at  the  blameless  hazel 
■eyes,  grave  in  their  surrounding  of  loose  hair,  how  much  their 
owner  meant  her  to  deny.  She  decided  that  "  No,  dear — not 
too  far  to  back  out,"  would  cover  all  contingencies,  and  be 
perfectly  true. 

The  girl  looked  relieved,  but  perhaps  would  have  been  put  to 
it  to  say  why.  "  I  see,"  she  said.  "  But  have  they  got  to  kissing 
point?     Did  you  get  that  out  of  him?" 

Mrs.  Carteret  nearly  laughed,  tliough  indeed  she  was  in  no 
mood  for  laughter.  "  I  got  that  out  of  him,"  she  said.  "  But 
then,  you  see,  I'm  his  mother." 

"  All  right.  I'm  an  outsider.  I  won't  ask  questions."  She 
seemed  to  repent  of  this,  though.  For,  a  moment  later,  she 
said : — "  I  must  ask  one.     Does  poor  Nosey  know  about  this  ?  " 


396  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

"  Mr.  Snaith?     Oh  dear  no !     How  should  he?  " 

"  She  might  tell  him.  7  should  if  it  was  me.  Not  to  would 
be  fibs.   ..." 

"It  isn't  you,  child!     And  it  couldn't  be  you,  in  the  nature 

of   things."      There  was   no   chance   of   a   smile   over   Nancy's 

•method,   now.      And   her   voice   hardened   to    say :— "  She   will 

easily  keep  hint   in  the  dark.     She  can  manage  the  position." 

"  Oh,  Madrina  !  " 

''  I'm  sorry  it  is  so,  dear !  But  you  will  find  I  am  right.  It 
will  prove  so  in  the  end.  She's  that  sort.  But  of  course  I  shall 
not  breathe  a  hint  of  that  to  my  boy.  I  would  sooner  he- 
credited  me  with  a  good  opinion  of  her.  If  I  stroke  him  the 
wrong  way,  the  least  little  bit,  it  will  spoil  all.  .  .  .  Yes,  dear,, 
I  have  a  plan.     But  it  has  its  drawbacks." 

"Its  drawbacks?" 

"  I'll  tell  you  to-morrow.     Go  to  bed." 

"  No — tell  me  now.     Bother  the  clock  !  " 

"  It  has  one  big  drawback.  I  shall  have  to  leave  my  figlioccia 
behind."  This  byname  of  course  resulted  from  Madrina,  first 
used  by  Nancy  because  it  sounded  well,  not  because  it  was 
applicable. 

"  Then  you  are  going  away  somewhere — going  with  him.     I 


see." 


Mrs.  Carteret  nodded.  '"  Tiiat's  it!  Someiuhere,"  said  she.. 
"  Anywhere,  somewhere  else — New  Zealand,  if  you  like — to  get 
him  out  of  the  way  of  that  woman.  Don't  look  so  shocked,  dear,, 
but  go  to  bed.    I'll  tell  you  to-morrow." 

Nancy  took  no  notice  of  this,  but  cogitated.  "  It's  a  good 
move,"  said  she.  "  Of  course  I  wish  it  could  be  done  any  other 
way.  Because  one  doesn't  pick  up  stray  extra  godmothers,  in 
every  bush.     I  don't  like  it,  but  I  shall  have  to  lump  it." 

"  It  isn't  absolutely  settled.  Only,  it  may  be  tile  other  way.. 
He  may  shy  off  going  if  I  don't  stick  to  it.  You  see,  he  made' 
me  promise  to  go^  so  he  can't  back  out,  as  long  as  I  don't." 

''  Oh  yes — I  quite  understand.  You  made  him  make  you 
promise  to  go  away  with  him,  of  his  own  accord,  and  now 
he's  done  it  and  can't  help  himself.     Very  good  idea !  " 

"  Yes — you  put  it  very  nicely.  Now,  dear,  go  to  bed  and 
we'll  talk  about  it  to-morrrow."  Nancy  wanted  to  go  on  talking;: 
but  ^Ii's.  Carteret  was  firm,  and  departed. 

Fred,  left  to  liimself,  promptly  wavered.  So  long  as  Charley 
was  kept  before  the  eyesight  of  his  mind,  his  conscience  told  him 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  397 

that  the  only  course  open  to  him  was  to  fly  from  his  temptation. 
The  moment  he  was  free  to  indulge  in  memories  of  Lucy — her 
glance,  her  voice,  her  touch  above  all  .in  that  fatal  moment  in 
the  garden — they  came  back  upon  him  in  a  throng  and  over- 
whelmed him.  The  intoxication  of  her  identity  seized  on  every 
fibre  of  his  being.  And  all  the  more  that,  in  spite  of  doubt 
thrown  by  his  mother  he  held  sacred  his  conviction  of  the  mean- 
ing of  her  passive  acquiescence  in  his  caress.  It  came  of  his 
placing  his  idol  on  so  high  a  pedestal.  A  commonplace  woman 
might  see  her  way  to  a  chance  kiss  from  an  adorer;  might  enjoy 
it  as  a  transgression,  and  exult  in  its  wicked  secrecy.  But  not 
Lucy,  she  was  above  that  sort  of  thing.  Her  action  meant  "  Do 
not  suppose  you  are  alone.  Do  not  suppose  your  love  is  unre- 
turned.  Our  relations  can  never  go  beyond  those  of  dear 
friends,  because  of  the  height  of  my  ideals,  and  no  doubt  yours. 
But  I  can  tell  no  lies.  I  can  make  no  pretence  to  a  frigid  indif- 
ference to  the  passion  you  have  as  good  as  confessed  to  me,  and 
you  are  at  liberty  to  draw  your  o  ,vn  inferences  about  my  feelings 
towards  my  husband.  The  path  of  duty  is  strewn  with  thorns 
for  both  of  us,  but  if  I  walk  barefoot  upon  it  without  complain- 
ing, you  will  have  to  do  so  too.  Beyond  this,  if  your  conscien- 
tious scruples  condemn  as  iniquitous  the  amount  of  subterfuge 
needed  to  conceal  a  relation  that  my  morality  excuses,  I  will 
thank  you  to  keep  them  in  abeyance.  What  is  your  conscience, 
that  it  cannot  face  an  indictment  mine  does  not  shrink  from  ?  " 
That  was  Fred's  interpretation  of  her  attitude,  anyhow.  Not 
that  he  could  sort  it  out  as  the  story  has  endeavoured  to  do 
for  him,  conscious  of  its  verbosity.  It  presented  itself  clearly 
to  him  nevertheless,  in  a  flash,  just  as  a  phrase  of  music  sum- 
marises what  would  need  a  volume  to  tell. 

There  was  an  obscurity,  though,  in  one  note  of  Itis  music. 
How  came  a  creature  so  pure  and  perfect,  so  flawless  as  this  idol 
of  his,  to  have  wedded  his  friend  for  the  only  reason  possibh^ 
to  such  a  one  as  she — an  almost  divine  insight  into  the  soul 
which  Providence,  for  Purposes  of  Its  Own,  had  thought  fit 
to  enshrine  in  a  casket  which  was,  to  say  the  least,, prosaic?  For 
Fred,  who  would  not  have  had  Charley  altered  by  so  much  as 
a  pin's  point,  could  not  shut  his  eyes  to  his  individualities. 
How  then  came  Lucy  Hinchliife,  having  once  seen  beyond  this 
mere  material  conipages  or  shell  of  the  body,  to  be  able  to  revolt 
against,  or  disallow,  the  actual  Charley,  the  inner  soul  or  self 
of  it?  Fred  was  forced  to  ascribe  one  imperfection  to  his  idol. 
She  had — for  his  sake — wavered  in  her  allegiance  to  his  friend. 

2i 


398  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

She  was  human,  so  far;  otherwise,  divine.  But  was  it  not  pos- 
sible that  she  had  been  misled  by  a  bad  influence? — a  plausible 
theory.  He  had  frequently  discerned  before  this  a  sinister  char- 
acteristic in  her  august  mother,  and  had  discussed  it  with 
Charley,  who  had  seemed  to  acquiesce  in  the  correctness  of  his 
views.  Both  had  accepted  the  description  of  the  lady — "  a  regu- 
lar old  stager  " — as  applicable,  and  it  had  seemed  to  convey  to 
them  more  meaning  than  the  mere  words  show  on  the  surface. 
!N'ow,  the  suspicion  at  work  in  Fred's  mind  that,  little  as  his 
own  mother  had  said,  she  was  laying  all  the  blame  at  Lucy's 
door,  made  him  rather  glad  of  the  presence  of  the  old  stager 
in  the  background  as  a  scapegoat.  It  would  make  his  mother 
— of  whom  Fred  was  frightened — much  more  lenient  in  her 
heart  towards  the  cause  of  her  son's  distraction.  And  after 
all,  there  was  that  story  of  the  noble  relative !  But  it  had  never 
been  discussed  or  hinted  at  before  Lucy — oh  dear  no ! 

He  found  that  he  could  account  for  her  readiness  to  accept 
Charley  for  her  husband  by  a  composition  of  two  forces,  acting 
on  her  inexperienced  mind  before  her  marriage.  One  the  per- 
sistence of  a  lover  for  whom  it  was  impossible  to  feel  no  affection 
at  all — for  was  he  not  Charley? — the  other  the  untiring  stress  of 
a  dominant  parent,  ceaselessly  working  to  an  end,  an  end  dear 
to  the  old  stagers  of  her  class.  Think  of  that  coronet!  Think 
what  a  Countess  her  daughter  would  have  made !  To  Fred,  this 
last  consideration  seemed  to  palliate  almost  any  amount  of 
worldliness  in  so  old  a  stager.  He  wondered  more  at  her  daring 
so  much  on  so  small  a  chance.  Then,  who  could  say  what 
callousness  Lucy  may  not  have  shown  to  other  would-be  lovers? 
She  evidently  had  never  known  the  meaning  of  the  word  "  love," 
or  she — with  all  that  beauty  and  purity  of  character,  mind  you ! 
— never  could  have  deliberately  married,  to  gravitate  down  to 
indifference  in  less  than  a  couple  of  years. 

But  the  oddity  of  it  was  that  Charley's  own  devotion  to  her 
seemed  unchanged.  At  least,  it  had  only  lulled  as  all  men's 
may  in  the  end;  for  life  at  high  pressure  is  impossible.  Why 
had  not  her  indifference  reacted  on  his  ardour?  It  would  have 
made  matters  so  much  easier — Fred  thought — if  Charley  could 
only  have  contributed  his  share  to  their  estrangement.  As  it 
was,  every  affectionate  word  to  his  wife,  every  little  turn  or 
action  that  spoke  of  his  confidence  in  her,  fairly  made  Fred 
wince,  to  think  of  the  precipice  so  near  by,  and  the  inevitable 
catastrophe.  As  he  paced  to  and  fro  in  his  room  that  night, 
conscious  that  he  would  be  inaudible  above,  with  a  floor  be- 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  399 

tween,  his  mother's  words : — "  I  am  thinking  of  poor  Charles 
Snaith  when  he  comes  to  know  of  this  " — came  back  to  him  in 
the  middle  of  an  undisguised  dream  of  what  might  have  been 
his,  if  only  .  .  .  and  that  reservation  brought  the  same 
thought  before  him  now.  That  terror  would  not  leave  him  free 
to  dwell  on  the  sweetness  of  the  poison  that  was  current  in  all 
his  veins.  It  would  come  again,  and  yet  again.  Its  sting  could 
never  be  withdrawn  from  the  heart  of  his  conscience,  except  at 
the  cost  of  an  exile  that  would  have  to  dwell  on  such  scanty 
memories  of  a  banquet  half-tasted,  a  cup  snatched  from  his  lips, 
as  life  in  a  new  world  elsewhere  might  leave  him. 

And  how  about  her  ?  After  all,  had  he  a  right  to  absent  him- 
self from  her  in  this  way?  If  he  had  kept  his  passion  for  her 
secret,  and  fled  in  time,  then  he  might  have  said  to  himself : — 
"  I  have  placed  my  friend's  happiness  above  my  own,  and  the 
woman  I  have  loved  in  vain  has  at  least  never  known  of  my 
love,  through  any  disloyalty  of  mine."  How  could  he  say  so 
now? 

Then  his  thoughts  ran  to  the  asking  of  a  question  he  shrank 
from  answering.  Was  he  to  see  her  again?  He  must,  and  yet 
he  dared  not.  What  would  become  of  all  his  resolutions  if 
he  and  she  had  to  say  farewell,  face  to  face?  It  would  be  hard 
enough  to  depart  in  any  case,  even  under  the  sanction  of  an 
exchange  of  letters,  declaring  and  setting  forth  that  course  as 
the  only  justifiable  and  reasonable  one;  how  much  harder  to 
tear  himself  away  from  her  living  presence,  each  knowing  the 
other's  heart!  And  yet — was  he  not  pledged  to  the  one  coursG 
or  the  other — pledged  to  begone,  in  any  case?  It  was  he  him- 
self, of  his  own  free  will,  that  had  sought  for  and  obtained  his 
mother's  consent  to'accompany  him. 

Then  another  nightmare  idea  came  to  persecute  him.  Sup- 
pose all  things  arranged  and  a  plausible  excuse  forthcoming  for 
iiis  departure,  and  the  embarrassment — or  worse — of  a  tcte-a- 
tete  with  Lucy  barred  by  any  fortunate  conjunction  of  circum- 
stances, was  he  to  vanish  from  her  without  so  much  as  a  word  by 
letter.  And  if  he  wrote,  what  was  to  prevent  Charley  seeing 
the  letter  ?  Of  course  if  she  saw  the  envelope  first,  all  would  be 
safe,  for  she  would  know  his  handwriting.  But  how  write  such 
a  letter  as  his  pen's  point  would  yearn  for,  on  the  chance — 
though  the  odds  were  a  hundred  to  one  in  its  favour — of  its 
reaching  her  eyes  first?  For  if  the  hundred  and  first  chance 
came  about,  and  Charley's  eyes  first  caught  sight  of  his  well- 
known   script — how   then?      Why,   he   could    almost   hear   his 


400  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

friend's  voice: — "Hullo! — what's  the  fun?  Letter  from  Fred 
to  the  missus,  a  mile  and  a  half  long !  Must  open  this !  "  And 
then — fancy  the  sequel !  How  at  first  he  would  think  it  a  joke, 
and  would  carry  it  to  his  wife  for  a  needed  explanation.  And 
then — how?  He  turned  sick  as  he  pictured  to  himself  one 
hideous  contingency  after  another. 

He  could  not  sleep — that  was  certain — until  he  had  seen  some 
way  out  of  this  labyrinth  of  difficulties.  He  could  explain  his 
sudden  departure,  though  on  different  lines,  to  her  and  to  her 
husband.  But  then  he  must  have  some  security  that  no  eyes  but 
hers  should  read  what  he  would  write  for  them,  and  them  alone. 
The  only  possibility  would  be  to  delegate  it  to  someone  to 
deliver  into  her  hands — some  trustworthy  person.  But  there 
was  no  one;  no  one  but  Charley  himself.  Charley  would  not 
open  a  letter  entrusted  to  him.  But  how  hand  him  such  a  one, 
and  look  into  his  honest  face  the  while?  Fred  shuddered  at  the 
bare  thought.  No,  he  must  give  up  that  idea  of  the  letter. 
There  was  absolutely  nothing  for  it — no  human  creature  com- 
mon to  both  who  could  take  charge  of  it.  Not  one  he  could 
rely  on,  at  least !  Of  course  there  was  Elbows,  but  she  was 
out  of  the  question.    .    .    . 

Well — to  be  very  exact — why  was  she?  Fred  wanted  at  first 
to  pooh-pooh  Elbows  as  an  absurd  hypothesis,  considered  as  a 
letter-carrier.  But  she  was  not  so  easily  eliminated.  He  tried 
at  first  to  justify  his  position  by  an  answer  which  he  all  the 
while  knew  to  be  absurd.  Because  Elbows  would  carry  the  letter 
to  her  sister  Mrs.  Lomax,  and  between  the  two  of  them  and  a 
hot-water  kettle  its  contents  would  be  got  at  and  read — copied 
perhaps — before  it  was  stuck-to  again  and  passed  on  to  Lucy. 
He  knew  better  than  to  run  that  risk !  This  justification  failed 
because  he  knew  in  his  heart  that,  whatever  Nancy's  defects 
might  be,  duplicity  was  not  one  of  them.  Was  not  her  short- 
coming rather  an  offensive  veracity,  an  unfortunate  literalness 
of  mind,  tending  to  place  her  in  the  odious  position  of  a  teller 
of  truths?  Oh  "no — she  was  quite  square,  if  you  came  to  that  I 
After  all,  for  a  thing  of  this  sort,  you  might  do  worse  than 
Elbows. 

Besides  she  was  absolutely  the  only  person  to  the  fore  whom 
he  knew  as  a  visitor  at  The  Cedars.  He  had  heard  of  her  being 
in  the  house  only  the  last  time  he  entered  it,  when  paying  a 
visit,  by  request,  to  the  nursery.  The  baby  had  expressed  his 
satisfaction  at  another  visit  he  had  received  the  day  before,  from 
a  lady  friend,  who  had  brought  him  a  bright  yellow  balloon,  and 


THE  OLD  MADPIOUSE  401 

inflated  it  as  his  request.  Her  name,  he  had  said,  was  ]\Iiss 
Fraser,  and  he  had  onl}^  allowed  her  to  depart  at  the  end  of  a 
long  visit,  when  she  had  given  an  undertaking  to  come  again 
next  week,  and  bring  some  other  object  of  interest  capable  of 
inflation,  say  a  pig.  At  least,  an  allegation  to  that  effect  was 
made  by  his  nurse,  in  a  Parliamentary  formula  suited  to  ques- 
tion-time, asking  him  did  he  make  statements  to  that  effect,  and 
was  he  by  nature  precious  and  even  divine?  He  had,  it  is  true, 
followed  precedents  and  made  no  reply ;  for  surely  the  most  un- 
observant student  of  the  Debates  must  have  noticed  that,  in 
Parliament,  question-time  never  is  answer-time.  But  Fred  had 
accepted  a  silence,  with  hiccups,  as  confirmatory  of  his  nurse's 
imputations,  though  he  wondered  whether  the  creature  who  was 
hanging  on  to  him  by  his  beard  was  alive  to  any  fact  whatever, 
even  tliat  he  was  Master  Charles.  Anyhow,  Nancy  was  evidently 
still  a  worshipper  of  her  friend's  beauty,  although  the  latter  had 
not  spoken  of  her  to  him.  Possibly  because  she,  Nancy,  would 
have  involved  reference  to  Cintra. 

He  was  far  advanced  in  a  night  of  speechless  wakefulness, 
and  feverish  imaginations,  when  the  chance  of  using  Nancy  as  a 
means  of  getting  a  letter  into  Lucy's  own  hands  gave  him  a 
factitious  ease  of  mind,  and  allowed  a  troubled  sleep  to  super- 
vene, ending  in  an  unconditional  surrender  to  Somnus,  who 
caught  Unrest  at  a  disadvantage,  and  strangled  him. 


CHAPTEE  XXVI 

Charles  saw  nothing  of  Fred  next  day,  as  he  went  straight 
away  from  the  office  at  six  o'clock  to  his  home  at  The  Cedars. 
Fred  had  evidently  stayed  on  to  lunch  at  his  mother's,  or  he 
would  have  put  in  an  appearance  at  the  usual  hour  at  the  lunch 
rendezvous. 

By  the  time  Charles  arrived  at  The  Cedars^  all  recollection  of 
his  conversation  with  his  wife  in  the  carriage  cominsj  home  from 
the  play  had  vanished,  in  the  course  of  a  night's  rest  and  a  day's 
business.  He  had  not  thought  himself  called  upon  to  put  two 
and  two  together,  in  connection  with  what  Mr.  Moring  had  told 
him  of  the  source  of  Mr.  McMurrough's  information  that  he  had 
embodied  in  that  paragraph.  The  mere  aroma  of  a  conclusion 
that  a  person  one  has  absolute  faith  in  has  been  playing  fast  and 
loose  with  veracity,  is  sufficient  to  scare  the  investigator  from  a 
clue  he  would  follow  keenly  if  he  saw  his  way  to  convicting  his 
cook,  his  laundress,  ^ven  his  medical  or  legal  adviser,  of  telling 
fibs.  The  fact  that'^xjucy  was  to  his  knowledge  the  only  person 
in  that  quarter  who  could  possibly  have  given  Mr.  McMurrough 
his  particulars  was  proof  positive  that  he  had  got  them  some- 
where else. 

Moreover,  his  mind  on  the  journey  home  was  fully  employed 
on  the  speculation  whether  the  first  person  he  found  at  his 
domicile  on  arriving  would  or  would  not  be  Fred.  He  was 
inclined  to  answer  in  the  affirmative,  and  was  distinctly  dis- 
appointed when  Tom  the  gardener,  trimming  the  lawn-edge  in 
the  front  garden  with  shears,  replied  to  'his  enquiry  whether 
Mr.  Carteret  had  come,  cautiously  with  all  reserves : — "  Can't 
say  I've  seen  him  myself.  Sir."  The  answer  he  expected  was 
that  Fred  had  come  by  the  previous  train. 

He  was  pleased  that  his  wife  should  share  his  annoyance  at 
the  non-arrival  of  his  friend.  She  came  in  late,  after  him,  and 
her  first  words  were: — "What! — you  haven't  brought  him?" 
To  which  his  reply  was  another  question : — "  Has  no  letter 
come?"  For  a  premonitory  letter  to  the  house  was  more  prob- 
able than  one  to  himself  in  town,  and  would  be  sure  to  be  sent 
to  its  mistress. 

She  jumped  to  a  conclusion.      "  His  mother's  ill,"  she  said, 

402 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  403 

"  It  must  be  that.  Nothing  else  would  have  kept  him.  .  .  . 
j^o — no  letter's  come."  The  last  words  were  for  Charles. 
Otherwise,  she  spoke  to  herself. 

"  We  shall  get  a  letter  in  the  course  of  the  evening — you'll 
see."  Charley  had  not  a  shadow  of  misgiving  of  anything 
amiss,  As  a  blindfold  man  walks  calmly  on  the  edge  of  a 
precipice,  he  trod  his  path  of  life  with  a  serene  assurance.  Was 
he  not  a  happy  man,  with  such  a  wife,  such  a  friend,  and — his 
inner  consciousness  might  add — such  a  son-and-heir !  For  he 
never  paid  a  visit  to  his  perfectly  organised  nursery  without 
feeling  that  its  succulent  raison-d'Hre  was  all  a  well-constituted 
mind  could  desire.  There  was  only  one  little  pitted  speck  in 
that  garnered  fruit,  the  drawback  that  Charley  had  mentioned 
so  diffidently  to  Mr.  Trymer,  in  the  hope  that  his  profound 
experience  would  throw  light  upon  it;  namely,  that  the  crea- 
ture's mamma  showed  such  a  very  half-hearted  enthusiasm  about 
it.  Never  mind !  Charley  felt  as  he  contemplated  his  son-and- 
heir's  fine  masculine  proportions  when  bathing,  his  delicate  yet 
firm  texture,  and  his  unfathomable  creases,  that  he  was  to  be 
relied  on  to  make  good  his  own  case  with  the  most  censorious  of 
mothers.  Still,  he  would  have  been  much  happier  that  Lucy's 
enthusiasm  about  her  offspring  should  have  equalled  his  own. 

"  Oh  yes — of  course  we  can  go  and  pay  that  blessed  baby  a 
visit  if  you  won't  be  content  without  it.  Nancy  Fraser — only 
you  hate  her,  I  know;  so  she  never  comes  when  you're  here — 
always  wants  him  awake."  Charles,  having  made  himself  happy 
about  Fred,  had  proposed  this  course  before  going  to  groom  for 
dinner.  She  added : — "  Perhaps  on  the  whole  he  is  nicer 
asleep." 

Charles  said : — "  They  are  particularly  ripping,  asleep.  So 
pulpy !  "  and  led  the  way  to  the  nursery. 

"  I  wasn't  thinking  of  that.  I  was  thinking  of  the  noise  they 
make — at  least  this  one  does — whenever  they  want  a  thing  and 
can't  get  it.     And  some  other  odious   .    .    .   peculiarities." 

Charles  looked  amused,  but  made  no  further  enquiry.  Espe- 
cially as  at  first  it  seemed  as  if  admission  to  the  nursery  would 
be  denied  them.  The  nurse  was  not  a  person  to  trifle  with ;  in 
fact,  Charles  had  more  than  once  remarked  upon  her  truculent 
disposition.  There  were  many  people,  he  said,  whom  he  would 
rather  meet  on  a  lonely  road  on  a  dark  night  than  Gorhambury. 
She  softened,  however,  when  she  found  it  was  the  master  of  the 
house  who  was  seeking  admission.  '"If  you'd  'a  said  it  was  his 
pa !  "  said  she.     "  On'y,  however  was  I  to  know  ?  "     It   then 


404  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

appeared  that  whatever  may  have  been  the  cause  of  ^Mrs. 
Gorhambury's  desire  to  exclude  the  public  from  that  nursery,  it 
was  not  the  fear  of  awakening  Master  Charles.  "  Wake  him 
v.pl"  said  she,  with  evident  pride.  "Not  if  he  don't  choose. 
1  don't  say  but  what  if  you  fired  off  a  canning  close  to  his  head 
you  might.  But  not  with  common  hollering  nor  stamp- 
ing." 

"  Now,  isn't  he  a  jolly  little  bloke.  Luce  ?  "  said  Charley,  his 
Tvhole  soul  going  out  in  sympathy  to  the  minute  growing  thing, 
the  small  type  of  humanity,  its  veriest  minuscule.  "  Just  look 
at  him  taking  a  snack — a  snack  in  dreamland — and  then  say  he 
isn't  a  jolly  little  bloke." 

"  Don't  understand.  Oh  yes,  I  see !  He  thinks  he's  got  his 
bottle — greedy  little  pig!  He  never  thinks  of  anything  but  his 
bottle.  .  .  .  Yes,  dear  Charles !  He's  very  interesting,  and  I 
suppose  I  ought  to  be  more  enthusiastic.  But  I've  never  been 
able  to  lose  my  head  about  children."  She  then  seemed  to  think 
she  ought  to  show  a  more  definite  interest  in  the  baby,  so  she 
talked  to  the  nurse  about  its  teething;  rather  over  her  husband's 
head,  as  of  a  thing  he,  being  a  man,  would  not  understand.  But 
^Irs.  Gorhambury  responded  very  coldly  to  these  confidential 
overtures,  making  perfunctory  answers  which  tended  to  show 
that  Master  Charles  knew  quite  well  how  to  cut  his  teeth  with- 
out any  interference  from  the  Faculty,  which  would  be  so  good 
as  to  keep  its  horrid  lancets  out  of  his  sweet  ickle  mouse.  "  But 
1  thought  babies  always  had  to  have  their  gums  lanced,"  said 
this  young  mother.  And  in  response  to  a  curt  correction  from 
the  nurse : — "  I  suppose  I'm  not  up-to-date,"  with  an  indifferent 
drawl,  as  if  it  really  did  not  concern  her,  one  way  or  the  other. 
Then  she  said,  addressing  Charles,  who  had  no  eyes  for  anything 
but  his  progeny : — '"  1  needn't  drag  you  away,  since  you're  so 
engrossed.     Only  don't  be  late  for  dinner,"  and  withdrew. 

Charles  felt  he  should  like  to  sound  Mrs.  Gorhambury  on  the 
strange  subject  of  this  mother's  indifference  to  her  male  issue. 
Experience  like  hers  would  be  valuable  in  throwing  light  on 
the  phenomenon;  the  only  difficulty  was  how  to  approach  it. 
Suppose  then  he  were  not  to  approach  it  at  all,  but  to  take  its 
immediate  proximity  for  granted — grasp  it  and  chance  the 
result. 

"Not  a  very  popular  little  card  with  his  maternal  parent?" 
said  he. 

"  Beg  your  pardon  !  " 

Try  again — better  luck  next  time !     "  I  was  saying,  Mrs.  Gor- 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  405 

hambiiry,  that  Mrs.  Snaith  doesn't  seem  to  appreciate  this — 
character." 

But  Mrs.  Gorhambury's  principles  disallowed  every  form  of 
epithet,  and  metaphorical  speech  of  every  class.  "  Was  your 
meanin'  Baby  ? "  said  she.  Her  tone  promised  concession  as 
soon  as  the  most  elementary  forms  of  speech  were  alone 
employed. 

"  Well — Baby  was  my  meaning,  certainly.  I  am  bound  to 
say  he  gives  me  the  impression  of  a  strong  character.  I  may  go 
so  far  as  to  say — a  tentacular  character."  For  he  had  rashly 
trusted  a  finger  in  a  palm  that  was  open,  in  a  sense  in  which  a 
half-blown  rose  is  open,  and  its  fingers  had  closed  upon  it  with 
a  giant's  force. 

"  He  won't  let  go,"  said  Mrs.  Gorhambury,  with  conviction. 

"  That's  a  pretty  prospect  for  me,"  said  Charles.  "  Doesn't 
he  ever?  " 

"  I  never  knew  him  to.  Once  he  gets  tight  hold,  there  you 
are !  "  This  held  out  a  hope,  however.  For  it  was  impossible 
that  this  child,  whose  diet  was  exclusively  milk,  should  have 
absorbed  its  captives,  like  the  boa  constrictor  or  the  cuttlefish. 
The  nurse  proceeded,  suggesting  extreme  suddenness  of  action. 
"  If  you  don't  mean  to  it,  you'll  get  free.  But  the  minute  you 
think,  he'll  tighten  up."  Charles  recalled  to  mind  the  rock- 
limpet,  who  can  be  detached  by  one  who  simply  acts,  without 
the  formation  of  an  intent  to  do  so;  but  who  can  read  thought 
with  ease.  "  We  must  have  patience,"  he  said.  Meanwhile 
Master  Charles  slept  deeply,  profoundly,  without  breathing. 
Only  the  occasional  suck  at  his  dream-bottle  betrayed  life, 
visibly.  There  was  an  advantage  about  this;  it  compelled 
Charles  to  stop  and  talk  to  Mrs.  Gorhambury,  and  he  wanted  to 
be  compelled,  in  order  that  he  might  have  the  opportunity  to 
decoy  or  persuade  her  into  a  clear  expression  of  opinion  about 
Master  Charles's  mamma's  unnatural  indifference  to  his  fas- 
cinations. He  returned  to  the  charge,  leaving  his  finger  in  a 
grip  whose  power  wa?  phenomenal,  especially  as  it  was  that  of  a 
sleeping  man  not  a  year  old.  "  Don't  you  call  it  rum,  Mrs. 
Gorhambury?"  said  he. 

Mrs.  Gorhambury  assumed  a  reserve  that  would  have  done 
credit  to  a  sphinx  putting  up  the  shutters  on  Saturday  night. 
"  It- is  not  for  me,"  said  she,  "to  be  asking  of 'no  questions. 
Nor  yet  a  answering  of  them.     I  know  my  place." 

Charles  knew  he  could  not  have  wheedled  a  real  Sphinx  into 
revealing  any  official  secret.     But  her  responsible  employers — 


406  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

Zeus  or  the  Graise,  whichever  it  was — might  have  done  so;  and 
Mrs.  Gorhambury  was  in  receipt  of  a  liberal  salary,  which  came 
out  of  his  pocket.  Surely  he  was  entitled  to  the  advantages  of 
her  experience  of  babies  and  their  mothers^  which  was,  by  her 
own  showing,  almost  infinite.  "  Come,  I  say  now !  "  said  he. 
"  Did  you  ever,  in  all  your  situations,  come  across  a  mamma  that 
was  such  an  unqualified  cucumber  towards  her  baby?  And  such 
a  baby !     Come  now — I'll  promise  not  to  tell !  " 

The  Sphinx  relaxed.  Yes — she  had  known  cases  of  a  similar 
indifference,  the  number  thereof  being  small  in  comparison  with 
that  of  the  babies  she  had  dry-nursed,  but  still  considerable — 
not  to  be  counted  on  the  fingers  of  man ;  but  fewer,  for  instance, 
than  the  toes  of  a  centipede — while  the  latter  number  was  as 
the  swarm  of  gnats  that  at  eventide  out  of  the  fens  of  Allen  do 
arise,  in  Spenser.  But,  if  you  asked  her,  and  she  were  to  give 
way  to  an  intense — indeed  ahnost  superhuman — love  of  Truth — 
she  would  be  bound  to  admit  that  never  in  the  course  of  her 
wide  experience  had  she  known  an  instance  of  such  a  baby 
as  Master  Charles  being  anything  but  what  you  might  call  a 
signosure  to  both  its  parents.  She  was  perhaps  tempted  by  an 
ambition  towards  rhetoric  to  make  use  of  a  word  of  which  she 
misconceived  the  spelling.  The  story  has  thought  it  best  to 
give  her  misconception. 

"  I  expect  it's  only  the  missus's  humbug,"  said  Charles,  a 
hope  dawning,  of  an  irresolute  sort.  "  It's  when  I'm  here — 
that's  all !  "  For  he  had  already  begun  to  notice  the  natural 
wifely  desire  to  disallow,  disqualify,  incapacitate,  and  cancel 
which  marks  the  demeanour  of  any  wife  to  any  husband ;  of 
her  own,  that  is.  He  didn't  want  to  give  Mrs.  Gorhambury 
a  chance  to  throw  cold  water  on  this  theory,  and  the  good 
woman  seemed  to  be  gathering  up  for  a  negative.  So  he  de- 
flected the  conversation.  "What's  the  Dying  Poet?"  said  he. 
"  In  that  box  there !  "  He  could  not  reach  across  for  the  box — 
he  was  too  firmly  held.  But  he  had  read  its  image  and  super- 
scription. 

Mrs.  Gorhambury  had  to  consider  dignity.  It  does  not  do  to 
show  too  lively  a  sympathy  with  children's  toys  in  detail. 

"Which  was  it  you  meant?"  she  asked.  "Ho — that  one? 
That's  a  Rubber  ISTovelty  Miss  Fraser  fetched,  and  he  took  notice 
quite  beautiful.     The  Dyin'  Poet." 

"  I  know.  You  blow  him  up  and  he  squeals.  Just  like  a 
Poet !  So  it  was  Miss  Nancy  Fraser  brought  him  that  ? " 
Charley  was  alive  to  the  injustice  of  his  former  attitude  towards 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  407 

Elbows.      "  It  was   very  jolly   of  her   to  bring  him   a   Poet," 
said  he. 

"  But  Miss  Nancy  Fraser  is — a — real — lady  !  "  The  efEusive- 
ness  of  the  nurse's  manner  seemed  to  point  to  someone  who  was 
not.  She  went  on  to  describe  the  notice  taken  of  the  Poet  by 
Master  Charles,  which  seemed  to  have  resembled  the  notice  a 
shark  takes  of  a  diver  at  his  mealtimes.  This  shark's  rapacity 
had  been  discouraged  on  account  of  the  dye  which  occurs  in 
rubber  novelties.  Charles  fought  shy  of  any  discussion  of  who 
was,  and  who  was  not,  a  real  lady.  Mrs.  Gorhambury  was  too 
valuable  to  quarrel  with.  He  changed  the  topic  again.  He 
would  be  late  for  dinner  unless  this  young  party  could  be  pre- 
vailed upon  to  let  go. 

It  was  managed  somehow,  but  not  without  arousing  the  young 
party  from  his  sleep.  His  indignation  was  too  deep  for  words, 
probably;  but  language  was  still,  for  him,  an  untasted  luxury. 
When  his  father,  on  his  way  down  to  dinner,  twenty  minutes 
later,  looked  in  again  for  a  moment  to  find  how  the  riot  had 
subsided,  he  was  again  a  closed  flower,  breathless  and  moveless, 
the  very  image  of  sleep  itself.  That  philosopher  was  wise  who, 
being  asked  to  choose  the  happiest  lot,  replied  that  he  would 
soonest  be  a  baby  without  ailments,  sound  asleep. 

That  Rubber  Xovelty  made  for  Christian  forgiveness  in  the 
mind  of  its  receiver's  father.  Not  that  any  act  or  deed  of  the 
donor  called  for  forgiveness.  But  he  and  Fred  had  carried  a 
nem :  con :  resolution,  years  ago,  to  the  effect  that  no  man  could 
be  expected  to  stand  Elbows,  and  he  had  held  fast  to  the  tradi- 
tion. No  sane  reason  ever  had  been,  or  could  be,  assigned  to 
it;  but  then  young  men  are  very  prone  to  antipathies, — espe- 
cially against  young  women — for  no  sane  reason.  They  are 
perfectly  fair  and  equitable  in  this  matter  of  likes  and  dislikes, 
their  loves  being  based  on  sound  foundations  as  little  and  as 
much  as  their  hates.  It  is  just  conceivable  that  Nancy's  terri- 
fying veracity,  which  with  her  was  simply  an  automatic  habit, 
had  grated  on  some  projection  of  the  structure  of  one  or  both 
of  these  young  men's  amour  propre.  So  the  position  at  the  date 
of  the  story  was,  that  Nancy,  caught  by  her  propensity  of 
admiration  for  beauty  in  her  own  sex,  having  become  a  devotee 
of  Mrs.  Carteret's,  thereby  maintaining  her  connection  with  her 
once-to-be  brother-in-law,  instead  of  following  the  natural  drift- 
apart  consequent  on  the  dissolution  of  his  engagement  to  her 
sister,  had  further — always  under  this  influence  of  personal 
beauty — developed   her   relations   with   the   wife   of   his  friend. 


408  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

She  had,  to  crown  these  aberrations,  become  the  victim  of  a 
blind  and  absorbing  passion  for  their  son,  and  her  attentions 
had  been,  so  far,  well  received.  Charley,  however,  felt  this 
evening  that  such  an  offering  as  that  Poet,  that  squealed  and 
collapsed  when  blown  up,  was  too  poorly  acknowledged  by  mere 
acceptance.  Besides,  he  had  a  strong  bias  towards  sympathy 
with  an}^  form  of  deification  of  his  son. 

"  I  say,  Luce,"  said  he,  across  the  table  after  dinner — the 
first  meal  they  had  had  alone  together  for  some  days — "  we  really 
ought  to  do  something  civil  about  j\Iiss  Fraser.  She  comes  all 
the  way  here  on  her  bike,  and  never  gets  anything  beyond  her 
tea." 

Lucy,  beautiful  but  bored,  said: — "Yes.  But  why  to-night? 
I  mean  what  makes  you  speak  of  it  to-night?" 

"  More  than  any  other  night  ?     Well — because  I  was  visiting 
our   Family   in   the   nursery   just   now,   and    Mrs.    Gorhambury 
showed  me  a  present  Miss  Fraser  had  brought  as  an  offering — to     i 
the  Family.     If  you  blow  it  up — the  offering — it  squeals  and     I 
collapses.     It's  a  Poet,  I  understand." 

"  Nancy  Fraser  is  quite  besotted  about  that  infant.  She  said 
she  could  not  get  a  Pig  or  an  Elephant.  They  were  all  sold  out. 
So  she  got  him  a  Poet.  Of  course  the  child's  too  young  to 
distinguish." 

"  Tried  to  stuff  him  into  his  mouth — Xurse  Gorhambury  says 
— and  got  blued  all  over.  Pigs  blue  you,  if  you  suck  them,  just 
as  much  as  Poets.  .  .  .  Well — why  not  get  her  to  dinner,  to 
meet  someone  ?  " 

"  It  means  six  at  table,  or  her  by  herself."  Charles  did  not  j 
see  this,  and  his  wife  had  to  explain  that  it  v/as  impossible  to  J 
ask  a  young  single  lady  to  meet  (a)  a  single  gentleman,  (b)  a  i 
married  gentleman  without  his  wife,  (c)  a  married  couple  unless  } 
reinforced  by  some  unit,  because  of  making  five  at  table.  This 
unit  was  not  achievable  at  a  moment's  notice,  as  Fred  was  no 
use  if  he  was  going  abroad.  Indeed,  anyhow,  it  would  never 
do  to  ask  him  to  meet  Nancy.  How  absurd  of  Charles  to  ask 
why  not,  when  he  knew  how  nearly  she  had  been  his  sister- 
in-law  !  Charles  conceded  all  points,  but  left  the  solution  of 
these  problems  to  a  higher  wisdom.  "  Nancy  won't  be  here 
again  till  next  week,  so  there's  no  immediate  hurry,"  said  his 
wife.  He  submitted  that  it  would  be  as  well  to  look  alive,  or 
Miss  Fraser  would  be  going  out  of  town.  He  was  thereon 
instructed  that  he  need  not  fidget,  as  the  matter  should 
be  maturely   thought  out,  and   the   proper   steps   taken.      "  All 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  409 

right,  sweetheart ! "  said  he,  and  snicked  a  cigar-point  to 
smokeabilit}'. 

But  that  little  banquet  for  six,  of  whom  Nancy  was  to  be 
one,  was  never  to  come  off. 

Never  was  a  man  more  unconscious  of  impending  evil  than 
Charles  as  he  lighted  that  cigar,  after  his  wife  had  retired,  on 
the  plea  of  a  slight  headache,  to  avoid  its  fumes.  She  had 
hitherto  been  very  indulgent  towards  the  weed,  and  no  doubt 
would  be  so  in  time  to  come.  But  this  evening  she  was  the 
reverse  of  chatty,  looked  fatigued,  was  feeling  the  heat  perhaps. 
Her  husband  was  as  solicitous  about  her  as  a  devoted  man  could 
be — didn't  want  his  cigar — would  chuck  it  with  pleasure,  or 
smoke  it  later.  How  about  smoking  it  later?  Yes — he  would 
do  that,  and  come  and  sit  with  her  in  the  drawing-room. 

He  would  have  been  better  pleased  had  she  welcomed  the 
alternative.  The  emphasis  of  her  rejection  of  it,  in  favour  of 
a  prompt  Yesta  match,  which  she  threatened  to  light  herself  if 
he  did  not,  had  very  little  sound  of  self-sacrifice  in  it.  Her 
repeated  injunctions  to  him  on  no  account  to  hurry  could  not 
have  been  much  more  vigorous  had  his  absence  for  twenty 
minutes  been  an  object  she  really  had  at  heart.  That  was 
impossible  to  Charles's  mind,  so  it  only  occurred  to  him  to  be 
gratified  at  his  wife's  consideration  for  her  husband.  See  how 
well  Lucy  pretended — for  his  sake !  That  was  how  he  looked 
at  it. 

He  began  his  cigar  meaning  to  disobey  her,  and  hurry.  But 
hearing  her  at  the  piano  made  his  mind  easy.  She  would  not 
find  the  time  hang  heavy  on  her  hands  in  his  absence,  with 
music  for  a  resource.  Had  the  slight  headache  been  sufficient 
to  disallow  the  music,  it  might  have  been  otherwise.  What  was 
that  air  she  was  playing?  Oh — he  knew — it  was  that  Italian 
thing  Fred  was  singing  the  other  night.  Yery  pretty  thing.  It 
had  come  out  of  the  window  of  the  drawing-room  into  the 
summer  night,  along  the  garden  walk  to  his  window  of  the  din- 
ing-room, open  for  the  heat,  and  had  floated  in  with  the  breath 
of  the  honeysuckled  air  to  mix  with  Charles's  Havana  and  add 
to  its  soothing  influence.  The  smoker  thought  there  was  some- 
thing to  be  said  for  music  after  all. 

He  cut  the  Havana  short  because  the  music  stopped,  and  made 
for  the  drawing-room.  He  found  the  player  walking  restlessly 
about  the  room.  "You're  looking  very  ..."  said  he,  and 
stopped. 

"Yery  what?" 


410  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

"  A^ery  so-so !  It's  the  hot  weather.  You  mustn't  try  to 
do  so  much." 

She  appeared  impatient,  even  irritable.  "  I  have  been  doing 
absolutely  nothing  at  all,"  said  she.  Then  she  showed  what  was 
on  her  mind  by  a  sudden  question.  "  Why  <lid  you  not  go  to 
Fred  and  tell  him  he  must  come  ?  " 

"  Why — I  was  so  late  at  the  shop.  And  if  I  miss  that  train 
it's  such  a  devil  of  a  time  before  the  next  one.  Besides,  I 
expected  to  find  him  on  the  platform  at  Waterloo.  Besides,  if 
I  had  gone  to  the  diggings  ten  to  one  I  shouldn't  have  met  him. 
Besides   ..." 

She  caught  him  up  in  the  middle  of  his  miscellaneous  justi- 
fications— the  sort  one  doesn't  really  think  of  at  the  time,  but 
that  come  in  very  handy  afterwards.  "  '  Besides  ' — '  Besides  ' — 
'  Besides ' — "  said  she,  echoing  his  connecting  link.  "  Why 
didn't  you  leave  a  letter  for  him  at  the  Temple,  to  say  he  must 
come,  from  me?  " 

Charles  had  thought  of  doing  so  at  breakfast,  and  was  able 
to  give  a  solid  reason  why  he  had  not  done  so.  "  I  knew  he 
would  come  if  he  could,"  said  he.  "  What  use  would  it  have 
been  to  us  to  know  that  he  couldn't?  He's  sure  to  come  to- 
morrow, anyhow." 

Lucy  was  discomposed  at  no  letter  having  already  appeared. 
But,  however ! — the  last  post  hadn't  come  yet.  That  was  one 
consolation.  .  .  .  Hadn't  it? — said  Doubt.  Charles  had 
thought  he  heard  the  postman,  five  minutes  since.  Lucy  rang 
for  the  butler  to  determine  the  point.  Yes — the  postman  had 
been,  as  a  prosaic  fact.  But  he  was  a  sorry  postman,  unworthy 
to  bear  the  name  of  post,  having  brought  no  letter  at  all,  unless 
indeed  one  from  a  correspondent  of  Mrs.  Marsden  in  the  kitchen 
could  be  considered  a  letter. 

It  was  what  Literature  would  describe  as  one  of  the  ironies 
of  the  position  that  Charley  was  all  this  while  rejoicing  in  his 
heart  that  his  inseparable  friend  could  command  so  warm  a 
friendship  in  that  of  his  wife.  How  if  she  had  taken  a  reason- 
less dislike  to  him,  as  she  might  have  done?  Such  things  have 
been.  His  concern  for  her  annoyance  at  Fred's  possible  depar- 
ture for  a  holiday  without  an  express  send-off  from  The  Cedars 
was  secretly  alleviated  by  his  satisfaction  that  Fred's  absence 
should  be  matter  of  so  much  concern  for  her.  It  had  been  one 
of  the  idle  pastimes  of  the  first  year  of  his  married  life  to 
choose  mates  for  Fred,  from  among  his  wife's  extensive  ac- 
quaintance and  his  own  more  limited  one.      '^Nhy  was   Fred, 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  411 

because  his  first  clioice  liad  clianged  lier  mind  and  married  a 
Public  Analyst,  to  be  debarred  from  a  happiness  such  as  his 
own?  Lucy  had  entered  keenly  into  the  discussion  of  schemes  of 
this  sort  at  first,  but  had  never  given  her  consent  to  any  one 
of  them.  Many  she  had  scarcely  entertained  seriously,  saying 
of  one : — "  What — a  dowdy !  Eeally,  Charles,  I  had  given  you 
credit  for  better  taste."  Of  another—"  H'm— a  passable  figure ! 
But  her  teeth  are  odious."  Of  another : — "  Very  solid  and  sen- 
sible, no  doubt!  But  where  are  her  eyes?  What  can  you  be 
thinking  of,  Charles  ?  "  And  her  husband,  who  was  not  at  all 
in  love  with  his  selections,  had  discerned  in  this  an  echo  of  his 
own  high  estimate  of  his  friend,  to  provide  whom  with  a  really 
suitable  wife  he  taxed  his  imagination  in  vain.  Nothing  caught 
on,  except  a  fictitious  creature,  of  a  beauty  equal  to  his  wife's, 
but  with  almost  every  detail  diametrically  opposite.  Sunny 
golden  hair  and  eyes  emphatically  blue  were  points  to  keep  in 
mind;  the  blue  not  precisely  washerwoman's  blue,  but — suppose 
we  say  ? — the  colour  of  the  Mediterranean  in  pictures  of  Sicily  at 
the  Eoyal  Academy. 

Latterly,  Lucy's  interest  in  this  match-making  for  Fred  had 
flagged.  Charley  discerned,  however,  that  this  might  easily  be 
the  case,  without  any  diminution  of  the  young  lady's  sisterly 
interest  and  esteem  for  his  friend.  In  fact,  he  could  see  with 
the  naked  eye  that  there  was  no  such  diminution.  Anybody 
could.  Moreover,  no  suitable  candidate  for  the  position  had 
appeared  lately.  Wait  till  Charley's  sky-blue  beauty  dawned — 
so  he  thought  to  himself — and  then  see  how  Lucy's  enthusiasm 
would  revive ! 

"  Don't  you  fret  your  hair  off  about  him.  Luce'! "  said  he, 
consolatorily.  "  You'll  see  there'll  be  a  letter  from  him  by  the 
first  post  to-morrow.  Anyhow,  I'll  go  to  the  diggings  on  my  way 
to  the  shop,  and  I  shall  find  him  there.     I'll  send  you  a  wire." 

"  No — don't  trouble  to  do  that.  He  cannot  go  away  without 
seeing — us."  There  was  the  faintest  wavering  before  the  last 
Avord.  The  substitution  of  it  for  "  me  "  was  too  elusive  to  be 
noticeable.     It  was  imperceptible  to  Charles,  at  any  rate. 

He  cast  about  in  his  mind  for  a  topic  to  change  to.  His  mind 
was  protesting  against  this  cloud  over  her  beauty ;  on  lier  behalf, 
not  his  own.  It  was  a  satisfaction  to  him  that  she  should  make 
such  a  point  of  a  farewell  visit  from  Fred;  but  if  it  came  to 
being  a  disquiet  and  a  discomfort  to  her,  that  was  another 
matter.  What  could,  he  talk  about  ?  Oh,  he  knew !  A  thing 
that  might  get  him  a  blowing-up,  but  a  capital  counter-irritation. 


412  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

"  Any  more  <ihostesses  ?  " 

"  Any  more  what  ?  " 

"Ghosts — spectral  appearances — hallucinations  ..."  He 
paused  for  an  inclusive  word;  then,  remembering  the  name 
and  nickname  of  the  first  promoter : — "  Grewbeerinesses — 
Klemmeries?  " 

"  I  think  I  know  what  you  mean.  No,  I  don't  know  of  any. 
They  may  have  seen  things — the  servants.  But  it  doesn't  follow 
that  they  would  tell  me."  She  spoke  absently,  as  though  pre- 
occupation made  this  a  matter  of  secondary  interest.  "  I  can 
ask  them,  if  you  like." 

"  Oh  no — it  was  only  my  rot."  It  seemed  to  him  to  be  making 
the  matter  of  too  much  importance.  "  I  say.  Luce,  shall  I  tell 
you  what  I  believe  will  happen?  The  old  Doctor  will  turn  up 
again,  all  alive  and  kicking,  and  then  what  will  become  of  his 
ghost  ?  " 

"  You  mean  we  shall  all  look  very  foolish  ?  " 

"  Well — yes ! — I  suppose  I  did."  He  seemed  to  think  this 
was  going  too  far,  and  added : — "  Or  not  exactly  that,  perhaps. 
But  we  shouldn't  hear  of  any  more  ghosts,  for  some  time  to 
come." 

"  That  would  be  an  advantage,"  said  she,  in  the  same  absent 
manner.  She  seemed  however,  after  reflection,  to  want  to  talk 
more  purposefully,  and  said : — ''  I  wish,  Charles,  you  would 
stop  talking  nonsense,  and  would  tell  me  seriously  what  you 
suppose  has  become  of  Dr.  Carteret." 

Charley  was  rather  sorry  to  be  brought  face  to  face  in  this 
way  with  a  problem  which  common  consent  was  daily  accepting 
as  more  and  more  insoluble.  ''  Indeed,  my  love,"  said  he,  "  I 
wish  I  -could  do  so.  But  I  am  as  much  at  sea  as  I  was  two 
years  ago.  Beyond  what  we  all  know,  that  he  came  to  this 
house,  and  that  not  a  soul  can  be  found  that  will  swear  to 
having  seen  him  after  he  left  it,  I  know  absolutely  nothing." 

"  It  is  no  use  my  asking  how  you  know  he  ever  left  the 
house." 

"  Xot  in  the  least,  if  you  expect  an  answer.  I  don't  know. 
Nobody  knows.  But  there  can  be  no,  direct  proof  that  any 
man  has  ever  left  any  house  he  has  been  seen  in,  except  his  be- 
ing afterwards  seen  outside  it.  In  this  case  nobody  saw  Dr. 
Carteret." 

"  ^A^lat  was  that  about  a  boy  seeing  him  ?  " 

"  It  all  went  the  other  way.  The  boy  said  he  didn't  see  him, 
and  he  couldn't  have  been  off  seeing  him  if  he  had  come  out?" 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  413 

"  What  made  anyone  think  the  boy  saw  him?  " 

"  Only  Mr.  Grewbeer's  experience  that  all  boys  were  liars. 
This  boy  said  he  didn't  see  him.  Mr.  Grewbeer  knew  that  this 
boy — and  every  other  boy — was  a  liar.  Therefore  this  boy  saw 
Dr.  Carteret.  If  he  had  said  the  contrary,  it  would  have  proved 
that  Dr.  Carteret  was  still  in  the  house.-" 

Lucy's  beauty  was  no  longer  disquieted  by  her  doubts  about 
the  causes  of  Fred's  defection,  and  the  non-arrival  of  an  explana- 
tory letter.  A  look,  of  terror  almost,  from  some  other  cause 
was  on  her — a  look  that  scarcely  interfered  with  beauty ;  indeed 
some  might  have  thought  it  enhanced  it — as  she  said,  hurriedly 
and  under  her  breath : — *'  Do  tell  me  why  you  are  so  convinced 
that  he  is  no  longer  in  the  house !  " 

Charles  looked  at  her  with  blank  surprise.  "  No  longer  in  the 
house!"  he  repeated. 

"Yes — why?     \Aliy  are  you  so  convinced?" 

"Convinced,  sweetheart?  How  can  I  be  anything  but  con- 
vinced? If  fifteen  workmen,  more  or  less,  at  work  on  the  repairs 
of  a  house,  fail  to  notice  the  mortal  remains  of  a  man  over  six 
feet  high  and  broad  in  proportion  .  .  .  That  was  what  you 
meant,  wasn't  it  ?  " 

"  Yes — I  meant  dead." 

"  Well  then,  I  can  only  say  that  anyone  not  convinced  that  the 
man  is  outside  the  house,  dead  or  alive,  has  a  very  strong  orgaa 
of  incredulity.     Anyhow,  I'm  convinced. " 

"  So  I  ought  to  be,  I  suppose.  But  did  the  men  know  they 
had  to  look  for  him?  " 

"  My  dearest  love !  Fancy  their  being  told  that  if  they  came 
across  corpses  they  were  to  mention  them  to  the  foreman !  How- 
ever, as  a  matter  of  fact  I  did  say  something  to  him  about  it 
myself." 

"  What  did  he  say  ?  " 

"  Said  he  would  arrange  for  them  to  call  particular  attention, 
if  such  a  one  turned  up.  They  wore  one  and  all  such  very 
respectable  men,  and  had  been  at  work  for  the  firm  for  so  many 
years,  that  I  might  rely  on  their  keeping  it  in  mind.  More  than 
that  he  couldn't  say.  He  assured  me  at  the  end  of  the  job  that 
a  very  sharp  lookout  had  been  kept,  and  no  dead  party  had 
come  to  light.  Just  think  what  it  means — all  those  men  strip- 
ping walls  and  cleaning  paint  and  repairing  perished  woodwork, 
for  two  mortal  months,  and  finding  nothing !  "  Charley  seemed 
to  be  amused  by  the  foreman's  attitude,  but  his  wife  did  not 
respond. 

27 


414  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

"  I  was  reading  in  to-day's  paper,"  said  she,  "  of  some  peasants 
in  France,  who  dug  up  a  body,  and  buried  it  again  in  case  it 
should  get  them  into  a  scrape." 

Charles  fairly  laughed  out.  "My  dearest  girl,"  said  he, 
"you've  been  dwelling  on  this  fancy,  which  is  all  made  up  out 
of  nothing,  until  it's  got  on  your  nerves.  It's  no  wonder  I  say 
I  should  be  glad  to  see  the  old  boy  again  in  the  flesh,  all  other 
reasons  apart." 

"What  do  you  suppose  has  become  of  him?"      This  very 

emphatically. 

"  My  dear,  I  don't  suppose.  I  cant  suppose.  All  I  know  is 
— he  isn't  in  the  house." 

"  It's  no  use  going  over  and  over  it."     She  was  gathering  up 
towards  bedroom  candles ;  somewhat  early,  Charles  thought. 
"  My  dear,  do  be  reasonable !  " 
"  How  reasonable  ?  " 

"Why,  only  like  this.  You  believe — don't  say  you  don't — 
that  the  old  boy  was  murdered  and  that  his  body  is  buried  some- 
where in  the  house.  Or  the  garden.  But  where  ?  And  who  do 
you  suppose  did  it  ?  " 

"  I  don't  suppose.  I  can't  suppose."  She  was  repeating  his 
words  of  a  moment  since.  He  broke  into  a  good-humoured 
laugh. 

"  Well  done,  Luce !  Had  me  there  !  The  engineer  hoist  with 
his  own  petard!  I  say — let's  confess  we  are  at  our  wits'  end, 
and  not  argue." 

"  I  am  not  at  my  wits'  end." 
"Well— what  do  you  know  that  I  don't?" 
The  eyes  that  rested  on  him  might  have  been  commiserating, 
though  not  without  a  certain  recognition  of  his  good-humour,  as 
she  said :— "  It's  no  use  my  telling  you.     You'll  only  laugh." 
"  I  won't.     Do  tell  me."     Her  answer  to  this  was  a  recapitu- 
lation of  incidents  known  to  the  reader.     His  comment  at  the 
end  was : — "  Rum !     But  I  don't  believe  in  ghostesses,  you  see." 
He  appeared,  however,  disposed  towards  an  attitude  of  limited 
indulgence  towards  phenomena  as  long  as  they  kept  in  their 
proper  place.     The  power  of  suggestion,  he  said,  was  very  strong. 
An  impression  of  a  spectral  appearance,  hallucination,  or  any 
game  of  that  sort,  once  experienced  by  any  member  of  a  house- 
hold, was   sure  to  communicate  itself  to  others;   and  however 
satisfactorily  the  first  impression  was  accounted  for  by  purely 
natural  means,  the  faith  of  secondary  percipients,  or  at  least  their 
affidavits  of  their  experience,  would  remain  unshaken  for  a  very 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  415 

simple  reason;  namely,  that  the  foundation  thereof,  being  pre- 
cisely nothing  at  all,  would  retain  its  original  value  unchanged. 
He  did  not  believe  that  the  son  of  Tom  the  gardener  had  been 
asked  by  a  venerable  gentleman  of  masterful  aspect,  from  the 
window  of  the  long  passage  opening  on  the  garden — which  by 
now  was  known  among  the  servants  as  "  the  haunted  passage  " — 
whether  Mr.  Carteret  was  coming,  and  when,  whereupon  he  had 
undertaken  to  enquire  of  Miss  Parker  in  the  kitchen,  and  on 
returning  could  not  find  the  venerable  gentleman.  Xeither  did 
Charles  believe  that  a  vendor  of  flower-pots,  delivering  a  hun- 
dred thereof  through  the  greenhouse,  had  been  told,  by  anyone 
he  could  describe  as  her  ladyship's  grandfather,  to  take  back  a 
broken  one.  Nor  that  the  Wash's  little  sister,  wandering  afar 
from  the  Wash,  had  returned  to  her,  or  it,  in  the  kitchen  to 
say  that  "  the  old  gentleman "'  had  sent  her  in  to  say  he  was 
waiting  and  somebody  must  come.  There  were  other 
similar  incidents  in  Lucy's  resume,  on  which  Charles  threw 
doubt. 

She  did  not  seem  to  consider  that  she  was  bound  to  make  any 
rejoinder  to  her  husband's  exposition  of  the  common  sense  of 
the  case.  But  when  she  had  achieved  her  bedroom  candle,  and 
was  on  the  edge  of  departure,  she  said  in  a  very  casual  way,  as 
though  it  didn't  much  matter : — "  I  wonder  Tom's  son  wasn't 
afraid  to  take  back  a  message  to  a  ghost.  I  should  have  been, 
at  his  age." 

Her  husband  considered  and  then  said,  generously : — "  I  see. 
That  walks  into  my  suggestion  theory.  Yes — I  suppose  Tom's 
son  thought  he  was  a  real  old  gentleman.  A  suggestion  of  a 
ghost  would  have  worked  out  as  a  ghost."  The  supposition  that 
Tom's  son  saw  a  ghost  to  order,  and  then  took  him  as  embodied, 
would  not  wash,  even  when  superstitions  had  to  be  dissipated. 
Charles  climbed  down  from  mere  orthodox  derision,  and  paid  the 
subject  the  compliment  of  treating  it  seriously.  "  Look  here. 
Luce!  "  said  he.  "  You  must  have  some  theory  about  what  was 
done  with  .  .  .  with  the  remains.  The  body,  I  mean.  Tell 
me,  and  I'll  have  the  place  dug  up  to-morrow.  Honour  bright, 
I  will !  " 

But  she  was  not  inclined  to  assist  towards  any  definite  action 
based  on  her  convictions.  "  How  can  I  have  any  theory,  as 
you  call  it?"  said  she,  impatiently.  ''All  I  know  is,  that  Dr. 
Carteret  was  never  seen  to  leave  this  house."  And  so  she 
left  matters,  going  away,  however,  through  the  door  which  led 
to  the  lesser  staircase,  her  usual  practice  certainly,  but  seeming 


41G  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

to  la^f  stress  on  her  distaste  for  the  other  route,  which  was  very 
much  nearer. 

This  mystery-mongering  about  Dr.  Carteret — for  that  was 
how  Charley  described  it  to  himself — was  the  only  tiling,  in 
these  days,  that  ever  rnfficd  his  equanimity.  His  wife's  indif- 
ference to  her  baby  was  nothing;  that  would  pass.  She  would 
become  as  devoted  as  he  was  at  the  shrine  of  Master  Charles. 
But  this  idiotic  fabrication  of  a  ghost-story  out  of  such  very 
insufficient  materials  was  really  .  .  .  !  Well — at  least  she  was 
doing  her  sterling  common  sense  a  grievous  injustice  to  lend 
herself  to  such  rot.  Why — no  ghost  worth  the  name,  if  any 
such  existed,  had  ever  haunted  premises  on  such  a  shallow 
pretext.  The  wliole  thing  was  too  ridiculous  for  words.  Fancy 
his  awe-inspiring  old  pedagogue  deliberately  haunting  a  house 
he  had  only  set  foot  in  for  the  inside  of  half  an  hour !  The  last 
man  in  the  world  to  do  anything  so  illogical ! 

Of  course  if  Lucy's  evident  belief  that  the  Doctor  had  been 
the  victim  of  foul  play  in  the  house,  and  was  actually  buried 
there,  was  well  grounded,  then  the  ghost  was  a  reasonable  ghost. 
But  how  could  such  a  thing  be? 

It  is  the  only  weakness  a  temperament  incredulous  about  the 
supernatural  is  ever  guilty  of,  that  it  lays  down  the  law  which 
real  ghosts — if  they  existed,  which  they  don't — would  be  amen- 
able to.  Charley  felt  sure  that  this  was  no  hona-fide  ghost,  from 
his  incorrect  conduct. 

Speculation  about  possible  places  of  concealment,  hitherto 
unsuspected,  got  on  Charles's  nerves,  and  made  him  restless 
about  the  corners  of  that  passage  just  beyond  the  new  door 
there.  Look  at  the  place  again  he  must,  just  to  make  sure  it 
was  utterly  impracticable  as  a  cemetery!  He  lighted  his  candle 
and  opened  the  door  noiselessly,  feeling  all  the  while  glad  no 
one  was  there  to  see  him  behave  so  foolishly. 

The  emptiness  and  stillness  of  the  place  was  unearthly.  A 
sudden  cat  developed,  and  left  by  a  window  open  at  the  top, 
treading  several  times  on  nothing  to  reach  it,  but  not  embar- 
rassed by  mechanical  conditions.  The  little  parrakeets  would 
have  waked  to  a  sudden  debate  at  the  sicht  of  Charles's  candle, 
had  they  been  there  as  in  the  daytime.  But  they  had  been  re- 
moved into  an  inner  room.  An  irresolute  moon,  often  outflanked 
by  passing  clouds,  made  the  long  passage  visible  to  the  end.  But 
if  ever  a  search  had  "  Give  me  up !  "  written  on  the  face  of  it, 
it   was   this   one   for   a   place   where   assassination    might   have 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  417 

reasonably  hoped  to  conceal  its  untidy  consequences.  The  very 
floor-tiles,  in  which  hexagonal  fit  the  slightest  wavering  might 
have  pointed  to  an  interment — for  this  passage  had  nothing 
between  it  and  terra  firma — were  closed  edge  to  edge  with  a 
diabolical  exactitude  known  to  pressed-dust  tiles  alone.  Which 
of  us  has  been  shown  over  a  restored  parish  church  has  not 
winced  about  its  chancel?  As  for  disturbing  and  replacing 
them,  all  the  story  can  say  is — try  it. 

No — if  any  evidence  of  the  foul  deed  remained  near  at  hand 
it  was  not  in  the  house,  but  in  the  garden.  And  every  square 
foot  of  its  soil  that  was  penetrable,  without  spoiling  horticulture, 
had  been  turned  over  by  spades  that  Avould  have  recoiled  from 
the  work  of  a  predecessor. 

Charles  came  back  from  his  investigation  more  convinced  than 
ever  that  the  ghost  story  was  simply  a  nervous  delusion,  orig- 
inated by  Mrs.  Klem's  report  of  her  last  sight  of  the  Doctor,  and 
cultivated  by  the  strange  epidemic  faculty  which  such  delusions 
are  well  known  to  have,  until  it  had  become  a  reality  capable 
of  affecting  even  the  most  sane  and  reasonable  intelligences. 
Fancy  his  unlocking  that  door  and  going  out  in  the  passage  to 
satisfy  himself  of  the  impossibility  of  a  thing  he  already  knew 
to  be  impossible ! 

He  closed  the  door  furtively,  to  minimise  this  lapse  from 
masculine  common  sense,  and  then,  not  feeling  disposed  to  go  to 
bed  yet  awhile,  resolved  on  half  a  pipe  to  assist  cogitation,  and 
retired  to  enjoy  it  into  his  smoking  cabinet ;  to  spare  the 
atmosphere  of  the  sitting-room,  whereof  the  windows  were  closed 
and  the  curtains  drawn,  concealing  bells  that  would  have  to  be 
handled  cautiously  if  he  opened  them. 

He  decided  that  he  would  banish  the  old  Doctor's  disappear- 
ance from  his  thoughts,  with  the  usual  result  that  he  could 
think  of  nothing  else.  Look  at  that  story  of  how  the  man  that 
put  that  paragraph  in  the  newspaper  had  got  his  particulars  of 
the  Doctor's  disappearance  from  the  family.  Even  an  Irish 
journalist — Charles  did  not  know  why  he  should  put  it,  men- 
tally, this  way;  but  he  did — could  not  speak  of  the  police  as 
'  the  family,'  or  even  as  intimate  friends  of  the  family.  But 
he  could  only  have  got  his  facts  from  Scotland  Yard.  Who 
knew  them  at  the  time?  Only  one  or  two  folks  at  the  school, 
imperfectly ;  Fred  and  his  mother,  and  himself.  As  for  Elbows, 
query?  Mrs.  Carteret  would  never  tell  her,  without  -a  caution 
not  to  tell  again,  whether  to  an  Irish  journalist  or  anybody 
else.     The  Klems  were  negligible,  as  devotees  of  the  bottle;  and 


418  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

uninformed  at  the  time,  anyhow.  Not  a  soul  else  knew  any- 
thing about  it. 

Except  Lucy,  of  course !    She  didn't  count. 

The  half-pipe  was  waning  before  Charles  became  aware  that 
he  had  not  banished  the  Doctor's  disappearance  from  his 
thoughts.  He  gave  up  the  attempt  to  regulate  the  subject- 
matter  of  his  meditations,  and  accepted  an  effort  to  revive  the 
name  of  Mr.  Moring's  informant.  He  did  so  because  although 
he  remembered  throwing  out  O'Dowd  and  O'Flannigan  as  feelers 
for  it — feelers  for  a  reminder — he  could  not  for  the  life  of  him 
recall  the  reminder,  quite  clearly  spoken  when  it  came,  and 
repeated  by  him  in  acknowledgment. 

McMurrough!  Was  it  by  any  chance  McMurrough?  .  .  . 
Oh  dear ! — what  a  fool  Charles  was !  Why — of  course,  Mc- 
Murrough was  the  name  of  that  man  Lucy  was  speaking  to  at 
the  play.     That  cock  wouldn't  fight. 

His  recollection  was  on  its  mettle  to  recover  that  name.  He 
resumed  in  his  mind  the  conversation  that  preceded  Moring's 
second  mention  of  it,  made  clearly  in  correction  of  his  chance 
shots  of  O'Dowd  and  ^O'Flannigan,  and  was  disconcerted  with 
the  plainness  with  which  his  memory  of  an  elderly  gentleman, 
probably  well  connected,  replied  : — "  No — McMurrough."  It 
was  just  before  he  made  that  remark  about  the  Liberty  of  the 
Press,  and  departed. 

Charles's  equanimity  was  shaken  by  something  in  the  per- 
sistency of  his  recollection,  now  aroused.  "I  must  have  heard 
the  name  wrong," — said  he  to  his  memory,  resentfully.  But  his 
memory  respectfully  but  firmly  insisted  that  it  was  right. 

He  might  have  treated  the  case  as  one  of  the  same  name — 
itot  a  very  uncommon  one — borne  by  two  different  people.  But 
two  or  three  words  of  his  wife  had  made  this  difficult,  if  not 
impossible.  "  He  writes  for  the  Press.  Irishmen  do."  That 
came  again  to  his  mind,  when  it  harked  back  on  their  entry  to 
the  theatre. 

And  yet — suppose  this  the  same  man!  That  is  to  saj^  the 
man  at  the  theatre,  a  former  acquaintance — indeed,  a  rejected 
suitor — of  his  wife's,  the  same  as  the  man  whom  Mr.  Moring 
reported  to  be  the  author  of  that  paragraph,  and  to  have  had 
his  information  from  an  intimate  friend  of  the  family !  And 
what  was  it  he  pledged  himself  to  observe  ?  What  was  he  going 
to  keep  in  mind? 

Was  it  conceivable — was  it  possible? — that  his  wife  was 
responsible  for  it?     He  tried  to  exclude  the  idea  from  his  mind 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  419 

— shut  the  door  in  its  face,  as  it  were;  but  it  got  in  at  the 
back  window.  Possible  but  inconceivable,  was  his  answer  to 
the  question.  Possible  because  anything  is  possible,  everything 
is  possible.  Inconceivable  because  Lucy  had  given  him  an  un- 
conditional pledge  of  silence.  He  remembered  how  he  had 
pressed  Fred  for  leave  to  tell  her,  and  how  urgently  he  had 
represented  to  her  Fred's  desire  that  the  subject  should  not  be 
talked  of. 

The  thousfht  made  him  very  uncomfortable  as  he  walked 
slowly  upstairs  to  his  bedroom.  Have  not  we  all  known  the 
shock  of  the  first  discovery  of  duplicity  or  ill-faith  on  the  part 
of  some  object  of  blind  confidence,  someone  who  has  com- 
manded the  whole  heart  of  our  trustfulness?  He  was  angry 
with  himself  for  his  disloyalty  to  his  wife,  as  he  accounted  it, 
in  admitting  to  his  mind  a  doubt  of  the  validity  of  her  given 
word.  The  disillusionment  which  the  cynic  deems  an  invariable 
sequel  of  six  months  of  married  life  was  not  yet  complete  enough 
in  Charley  for  him  to  accept  the  possibility  of  such  a  thing 
unchallenged.  The  only  cloud  that  had  crossed  the  zenith  of 
his  idolatry  so  far  had  been  the  revelation  that  she  had  nervous 
fancies;  fancies  which,  obsessing  the  faculties  of  a  less  clear- 
headed woman,  might  have  made  her  superstitious. 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

Fred  woke  late  next  morning  at  Maida  Vale,  and  did  his  best 
to  get  into  his  clothes,  to  avoid  anticipated  cold  eggs-and-bacon 
at  breakfast.  His  exertions  proved  needless,  for  no  one  was 
visible  when  he  went  into  the  breakfast  room,  and  no  bell  had 
rung.  The  testimony  of  Jane,  the  new  servant,  was  to  the  effect 
that  Miss  Frasiour — whose  name  she  elaborated  to  add  to  its 
effect — had  gone  out  on  her  bicycle,  but  would  return  to  break- 
fast. Jane  was  expecting  her  in  any  minute.  Mrs.  Carteret 
would  take  hers  in  her  room.  Would  Mr.  Carteret  like  his 
separate,  or  wait  for  Miss  Frasiour?  He  would  wait,  certainly. 
In  fact,  he  welcomed  a  tctc-a-tcte  with  the  young  lady  whom  he 
had  once  spoken  of  to  Charley  as  his  disintegrated  sister-in- 
law  ;  not  on  her  merits,  but  because  he  wanted  to  feel  his  wav  to 
the  delivery  of  that  letter  to  Lucy. 

Fred  had  had  experience,  in  old  times,  of  the  deadly  and 
incisive  literal-mindedness  of  this  young  person.  It  had,  in  fact, 
been  the  basis  of  the  half-confessed  hostility  between  her  and 
the  two  young  men.  But  he  had  still  to  learn  the  full  scope 
and  intensity  of  her  faculty  of  direct  speech. 

"You  will  be  sroino^  over  to  The  Cedars  .  .  .  soon?"  said 
he,  casually,  to  open  the  way  to  the  request  he  had  to  make. 

"  Yes — next  week." 

This  was  much  too  far  off.  "  I  thought  you  would  be  going 
sooner,"  said  Fred.     "  But  I  can  manage." 

"What's  it  for?"  said  Nancy.  "I  can  go  on  purpose,  you 
know." 

"  I  want  to  get  a  letter  to  Mrs.  Snaith." 

"  Why  can't  you  send  it  by  post?  " 

Wliy  not  indeed?  Fred  saw  he  had  blundered  at  the  very 
first  outset.  So  much  so  that  he  was  inclined  to  acknowledge 
defeat,  and  take  to  flight.  "Of  course  I  can  send  it  by  post. 
But  I  thought,  if  you  were  going  .  .  .  However,  it  doesn't 
really  matter." 

"  That's  absurd,"  said  Nancy,  after  consideration.  "  It  must 
matter.  You  wanted  to  get  your  letter  to  her  for  some  reason. 
It  wasn't  soonness.  The  post  would  have  been  as  soon  as  me. 
Unless  I  had  been  going  this  very  minute.     I  can  go — straight 

420 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  421 

away  now,  if  the  madrina  is  propitious.      Where's  the  letter? 
Hand  it  over." 

"  It  isn't  written." 

"  Well  then — write  it !  I  can  go  to  lunch  at  The  Cedars  just 
as  easily  to-day  as  to-morrow." 

"  Suppose  Mrs.  Snaith  has  gone  out  to  lunch  ?  " 

"  I  can  lunch  with  Master  Charles.  He'll  have  his  bottle, 
and  Gorhambury  will  feed  me  all  right.     Go  and  write  it!" 

Fred  felt  embarrassed.  How  could  he  word  such  a  letter 
under  pressure,  with  this  obliging  girl — he  was  bound  to  admit 
his  obligation  to  her — waiting  to  carry  it  for  him?  Tlie  raw 
prosaic  daylight  alone  threw  him  out  of  gear  for  the  writing  of 
such  a  letter.  But  it  would  never  do  to  admit  to  Xancy  that 
its  contents  were  anything  outside  everyday  life;  the  date  of  an 
appointment,  for  instance — that  sort  of  thing.  That  she  was  so 
near  the  heart  of  his  mystery  as  that  interview  overnight  with 
his  mother  had  left  her,  was  a  thing  that  never  entered  his 
imagination. 

He  had  just  begun  to  seek  for  a  pretext  that  would  lapse  his 
application  to  Xancy,  and  cancel  it,  when  he  remembered  that 
it  was  his  only  chance  of  getting  a  letter  into  Lucy's  hands  with- 
out risk  of  its  being  opened  and  read  by  her  husband — or  at 
least  putting  her  in  danger  of  being  questioned  about  it — unless 
it  were  the  one  his  whole  soul  recoiled  from,  of  entrusting  it 
to  Charley  himself,  facing  his  unsuspicious  honesty  with  the 
unflinching  eyes  of  a  liar.  It  would  reach  Iter  unopened, 
but   .    .    . 

No — that  was  a  thing  he  could  not  do !  Anything  but  that. 
But  then  it  seemed  to  him  he  could  not  write  that  difficult  last 
letter  of  farewell  offhand,  so  that  Nancy  could  be  the  bearer 
of  it  here  and  now.  Of  course  he  could  ask  her  to  take  it  to- 
morrow instead.  Only — how  could  he  account  for  it?  Except 
indeed  by  taking  her  into  his  confidence.  That  occurred  to  him. 
He  was  wondering  what  his  mother  would  advise,  when  Nancy's 
own  penetration,  adrift  for  tlie  moment  among  contingencies, 
seized  upon  a  point  that  up  till  now  had  escaped  its  notice. 

"  What  on  earth,"  said  she,  "  is  to  prevent  you  giving  your 
letter  to  Mr.  Snaith  to  take  to  her?  You'll  see  him  in  town, 
won't  you?  " 

He  wavered  and  flinched  off  a  straight  answer,  the  true  one 
being  impossible.  There  were  reasons,  he  said.  They  didn't 
seem  comfortable  ones,  to  judge  by  his  voice. 

"  What  are  you  going  to  say  in  it  ?  "     No  arrow  from  Robin 


422  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

Hood's  bow  ever  struck  venison  or  foeman  straighter  and  swifter 
than  this  question  of  Nancy's  struck  into  the  heart  of  the 
matter. 

It  was  evident  to  Fred  that  he  must  either  make  this  girl 
his  confidante,  or  give  up  the  idea  of  entrusting  his  letter  to 
her  altogether.  He  chose  the  former  course,  influenced  perhaps 
by  the  unblushing  truthfulness — the  only  phrase  that  does  it 
justice — of  the  frank  gaze  that  met  his  as  he  looked  up,  sur- 
prised a  little  at  her  extraordinary  directness.  "  Good-bye !  " 
said  he.  Which  was  not  an  apostrophe  to  Nancy,  but  what  he 
was  going  to  say  in  his  letter.  To  avoid  the  former  interpre- 
tation, he  added : — "  I  mean  that  that  will  really  be  the  sub- 
stance of  the  letter." 

"  Look  here !  I  know  all  about  it.  To  say  I  didn't  would  be 
fibs.     You  are  going  away  with  your  mother — somewhere." 

"  Yes.  We  haven't  settled  where.  We  shall  go  almost  im- 
mediately. But  it  is  best  that  Lucy  Snaith  and  I  should  not 
meet.  You  can  see  that?"  He  had  thrown  off  all  disguise  of 
the  tension  he  had  to  live  under  now,  and  was  speaking  with  a 
strained  earnestness.  She  merely  nodded  assent,  and  he  con- 
tinued : — "  I  could  not  go  away  without  a  word,  and — what  am 
I  to  do?  Eemember  that,  come  what  may,  Charles  Snaith  has 
to  be  kept  in  ignorance  of  why  I  am  going.  The  very  worst 
thing  that  could  happen  would  be  that  he  should  find  out  why." 

"  I  will  take  your  letter,  if  you  wish  it ;  to-day  or  to-morrow, 
when  you  have  written  it.  To-morrow  would  be  best,  because  I 
can  send  a  line  to-day  to  say  I  am  coming.  You  want  me  to 
give  it  to  her  herself,  and  see  that  she  opens  it?  That's  it, 
isn't  it?" 

"  That's  the  sort  of  thing.     I  see  you  understand." 

"  Very  good,  then !  You  write  it  and  I'll  take  it."  But  the 
proceeding  was  too  surreptitious  for  Nancy  to  acquiesce  in  it 
without  a  protest.  "  It  makes  me  feel  like  a  thief  in  the  night," 
she  said.  '"  Like  an  area-sneak  or  a  Venetian  mystery.  But 
I'll  take  it  to  her,  because  I  see  your  fix."  Then  reflection  on 
the  undertaking  gave  her  misgivings ;  inclined  her  towards  back- 
ing out  of  it.  "  I  cannot  for  the  life  of  me  see  why,  if  you  can 
square  it  with  Mr.  Snaith  when  you  see  him  to-day,  you  shouldn't 
give  him  her  letter  to  take  ..."  Fred  shook  his  head  as  she 
hesitated,  and  was  going  to  speak,  when  she  interrupted  him 
with : — "  Oh  yes,  I  do,  though ;  I  do  see  why.  It  would  be  too 
Venetian  by  half  .  .  .  But  I'm  not  sure  about  the  post.  After 
all,  why  not  the  post?  " 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  423 

There  was  a  ring  of  excruciating  pain  in  Fred's  voice  as  lie 
answered : — "  You  ivould  be  sure — indeed  you  would ! — if  you 
knew  how  Charley  and  I  have  opened  each  other's  letters  for 
years  past.  If  he  came  down  first  to  breakfast  to-morrow  and 
found  a  letter  from  me  in  her  lot,  he  would  open  it  to  a  dead 
certainty.  And  suppose  it  was  the  letter  I  want  to  write  to 
her — the  letter  I  jnust  write — how  then?" 

Nancy  had  an  idea,  but  dismissed  it  as  obvious  nonsense,  that 
the  letter  might  be  posted  with  superhuman  discrimination,  so 
as  to  reach  Mrs.  Snaith  at  a  chosen  moment.  An3'one  who  has 
ever  tried  the  experiment  will  know  that  her  rejection  of  this 
idea  was  well  grounded.  "  I  don't  half  like  the  turn-out,"  said 
she.  "  But  I  can't  see  any  other  way  out  of  it.  You  must 
write  to  her.  I  see  that.  You  can't  post  it.  I  see  that. 
And  you  can't  give  it  to  poor  No —  ...  Oh  dear — I  didn't 
mean  .    .    .    ! ! " 

"  Never  mind.     I  knew  you  called  him  Nosey." 

"  To  have  in  his  pocket  all  the  way  down  to  Wimbledon. 
You  must  send  it  to  her,  and  there's  nobody  but  me  to  take  it. 
So  just  you  get  it  written  and  hand  it  over." 

Said  Nancy  to  Mrs.  Carteret,  later  in  the  day,  as  a  resumption 
of  a  former  item  of  conversation  earlier : — "  I  knew  all  about  it 
of  course,  and  he  saw.  Where  was  the  use  of  humbugging? 
Besides,  I  do  it  so  badly  I  shouldn't  have  kept  it  up.  So  I  as 
good  as  told  him  I  wouldn't  take  his  letter  unless  I  knew  what 
was  in  it.  He  didn't  tell  what,  except  that  it  was  to  say  good- 
bye.    I  wasn't  asking  for  details,  you  know." 

"  No — I  quite  understood  that.  Then  you'll  take  it  to- 
morrow." 

"  That's  the  idea.     If  he's  written  it.     Shan't  if  he  hasn't." 

"  We  shall  find  it  at  home  when  we  get  back.  You'll  see." 
For  this  was  not  at  Maida  Vale,  but  at  a  shop.  It  was  one  of 
those  shops  where  they  don't  keep  your  size,  and  a  young  lady 
of  perfect  manners  and  an  unparalleled  sweetness  of  disposition 
had  gone  away  from  her  side  of  the  counter  through  a  wilder- 
ness of  avenues  of  counters,  to  seek  in  other  climes  for  Mrs. 
Carteret's  size  in  reindeer.  So  she  and  Nancy  had  picked  up 
the  thread  of  a  previous  chat. 

*'  You  think,  then,  you'll  go  to  Paris  for  a  week  or  so,  and  then 
on  to  Switzerland."  Nancy  had  never  been  abroad,  and  spoke 
with  a  mj'sterious  awe  of  foreign  parts. 

"  That  would  suit  Fred.     He  wants  to  prowl  about  the  Exhibi- 


424  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

tion,  and  particularly  to  see  the  flying  machines,     it  will  amuse 
him  and  make  him  I'orget   .    .    .    forget  things." 

"You  think  he  will?" 

Mrs.  Carteret  laughed.  "  My  dear  child ! — of  course  he  will. 
Men  do.  Do  you  suppose  1  mean  to  go  abroad  for  ever,  because 
my  foolish  son   ..." 

"'/  know."  Mrs.  Carteret  had  stopped  because  she  thought 
a  stout  lady  was  listening.  "  She  won't  hear.  You  needn't  be 
afraid.  She's  too  busy  buying  com  ..."  Delicacy  pulled 
the  speaker  up  short. 

"  Well — I  think  Fred  will  have  come  to  his  senses  within 
three  months.  .  .  .  That  young  woman  of  ours  is  a  very  long 
time  over  these  gloves." 

"  When  do  you  expect  to  get  away  ?  " 

"  We  must  go  at  once,  in  order  that  he  may  not  have  to  go 
to  The  Cedars.  He  says  he  can  manage  the  excuse-making  for 
a  day  or  two,  if  I  insist  on  going.  So  I  shall  insist.  Only,  it 
will  never  do  to  have  a  delay.  Is  that  young  woman  never 
coming  back?  .  .  .  Oh,  herQ  she  is!  Well,  have  you  got  my 
size?"  Not  in  reindeer,  said  that  young  woman.  j\[illions 
were  ordered,  and  were  certain  to  be  in  stock  at  dawn  to-morrow. 
Many  thousand  gross  of  every  other  size  were  in  stock  now. 
Also,  the  almost  incalculable  accumulation  of  gloves  other  than 
reindeer  consisted  almost  exclusively  of  Mrs.  Carteret's  size. 
Whether  they  were  kid.  Lisle  thread,  calf-skin,  sackcloth  or  ashes, 
that  young  woman  could  supply  any  number  of  six-three-quarter 
at  a  fraction  of  a  second's  notice.  But  in  reindeer,  nothing  be- 
fore dawn  to-morrow. 

It  really  did  not  matter,  as  the  time  had  been  passed  in  chat 
that  the  story  has  thought  worth  recording,  as  having  a  direct 
bearing  on  its  own  tenor.  Mrs.  Carteret  absolutely  declined 
to  compromise  for  gloves  and  silk  stockings,  however  new  the 
line  of  the  latter ;  indeed,  though  the  latest  novelties,  they  looked 
to  her  almost  painfully  identical  with  the  silk  stockings  of  other 
days.  So  she  and  Nancy  went  their  way,  leaving  the  stout  lady's 
young  woman,  who  was  of  the  bulldog  type,  all  but  trying  on 
her  by  force  a  medium  size  of  the  garment  she  was  seeking,  in 
the  teeth  of  her  statement  that  she  wanted  the  "  out "  size,  and 
nothing  a  millimetre  smaller  would  come  on.  The  story  avoids 
mentioning  the  garment  by  name,  and  it  is  not  important  that 
it  should  do  so.  Nancy  said  to  Mrs.  Carteret,  as  soon  as  they 
were  outside  the  radius  of  this  riot : — "  I  wonder  which  of  those 
two  will  be  top-dog."     And  Mrs.   Carteret  said: — "I  wonder. 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  425 

dear !  "  and  explained,  as  soon  as  they  had  done  losing  their 
way  in  the  shop,  and  got  out  at  a  new  door  into  a  street 
previously  unknown  to  both,  that  she  had  only  gone  to  this 
shop  as  an  ascertained  source  of  reindeer,  and  did  not  mean  to 
buy  anytliing  in  London;  as  she  and  Fred  had  decided  to  go 
to  Paris,  where  shopping  was  a  joy  to  the  heart,  even  if  the 
establishment  spoke  English,  which  took  time.  Nancy  said: — 
"  Can  you  buy  things  in  French,  then  ? "  and  felt  how  very 
much  she  herself  couldn't. 

For  Mrs.  Carteret  had  had  a  long  interview  with  her  son 
that  morning,  before  he  went  away  to  a  trial  of  his  powers  of 
dissimulation  with  Charley — how  he  shrank  now  from  meeting 
his  old  friend,  albeit  the  latter  was  as  dear  to  him  as  ever! — 
and  had  had  to  wrestle  with  a  disposition  on  his  part  to  waver 
in  his  resolution  to  go  abroad.  She  had  met  this  with  an 
emphatic : — "  Nonsense,  Fred !  A  promise  is  a  promise,  and 
I  hold  you  to  yours."  She  then  went  on  to  reason  with  him 
about  the  impossibility  of  his  position  if  he  remained  at  home. 
"  Do  you  mean,"  said  she,  "  to  go  on  fudging  up  new  excuses 
every  week  for  not  spending  Saturday  and  Sunday  at  The 
Cedars,  or  do  you  mean  to  break  your  friend's  heart  and  blacken 
his  whole  life?  There  is  no  half-way.  It  must  be  either  the 
one  or  the  other." 

Fred  was  sorely  put  to  it.  "  I  know  I  made  you  a  promise 
last  night,"  said  he.  "  But  when  I  came  to  ask  myself,  what 
would  her  position  be  ?    .    .    . " 

His  mother  at  first  said : — "  Very  well — go  your  own  way, 
then!"  and  was  half  inclined  to  add — "And  lose  your  mother 
as  well  as  your  friend."  But  she  thought  belter  of  impatience. 
"  Listen,  Fred,"  said  she,  "  you  say  you  can  manage  with 
Charles  Snaith  if  I  make  it  a  condition  that  we  start  on  Satur- 
day morning.  I  do  make  it  a  condition,  for  your  sake.  It's 
very  inconvenient,  but  I  will  do  it  because  the  more  I  think  it 
over,  the  plainer  I  see  that  if  you  stop  here  a  tragedy  will  come 
of  it.  And  the  principal  victim  will  be  the  one  least  to  blame; 
I  mean  your  poor  dear  friend  Xosey,  as  Nancy  calls  him.  What 
has  he  done,  except  put  too  much  trust  in  his  friend  ?  ...  Oh 
yes — I  know  what  people  will  say!"  For  Fred  had  been  about 
to  speak. 

"  They  will  say  he  should  not  have  trusted  you  so  much  alone 
with  his  wife,  and  they  said  all  along  what  would  come  of  it. 
The  idiots!— as  if  Eve\    .    ." 

'■'Well — why  did  you  stop?" 


426  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

"  Why ! — it  seemed  like  questioning  the  Higher  Wisdom  to  say 
that  if  nothing  had  been  said  about  the  only  tree  in  the  o-arden 
Eve  was  not  to  eat,  it  was  just  a  chance  she  would  have  kept 
her  paws  off  that  apple.  Mr.  Snaith  would  not  have  avoided 
this  by  chaperoning  his  wife.     Rather  the  contrary.-" 

"  That's  all  true.  But  it  does  not  make  me  feel  any  the  com- 
fortabler  about  my  conduct  towards  her,  if  I  simply  run  away 
for  Charley's  sake.  Tell  me,  Mother  mine,  do  you  believe  it  to 
be  really  impossible  for  a  man   ..." 

"  Go  on,  Fred.     Speak  out,  to  me." 

"  For  a  man  to  go  on  loving  a  woman  and  to  hide  his  love — 
crush  it  out  for  her  sake  as  well  as  his  own — when  surrender 
would  only  mean  ruin  for  her  and  a  life  of  self-reproach  to 
him  ?  " 

Mrs.  Carteret  had  been  speaking  earnestly,  but  her  voice  took 
a  new  sort  of  earnestness  to  say : — "  I  not  only  do  not  think  it 
impossible.  I  know  it  to  be  possible.  But  not  if  the  woman 
knows.  So  long  as  either  believes  the  other  in  the  dark,  there 
is  safety.  But  neither  of  you  is  in  the  dark,  after  Sunday 
evening.     I  am  going  by  what  you  told  me  last  night." 

"  All  right.  I  told  you  exactly  what  happened.  Yes.  We 
have  passed  the  Rubicon."  Fred  was  too  much  absorbed  in  his 
own  perplexities  to  wonder  at  his  mother's  slight  change  of 
manner. 

They  decided  in  the  end,  after  much  talk  of  this  sort,  that 
there  was  only  one  way  out  of  the  difficulty,  and  Fred  went 
straight  away  to  his  chamber,  to  lock  himself  in  and  make  the 
best  he  might  of  that  letter  to  Lucy,  which  ISTancy  had  promised 
to  deliver  to  her  the  next  day.  He  had  not  overmuch  time 
to  write  it,  for  it  had  to  be  posted  to  Nancy  in  time  for  her 
to  receive  it  next  day  before  starting  for  The  Cedars,  which  was 
a  two  hours'  ride  from  Gipsy  Hill,  even  for  so  expert  a  cyclist. 

However,  he  managed  to  get  it  written  somehow,  face  to  face 
as  he  was  with  an  insoluble  problem — that  of  expressing  undying 
love  for  a  woman,  leashed  with  unflagging  friendship  for  her 
husband.  In  fact,  he  could  not  have  written  that  letter  at  all, 
if  he  had  not  already  spoken  to  her  of  his  passion  and  its 
inexorable  barrier,  under  the  guise  of  a  ridiculous  hypothesis — 
an  imaginary  couple,  dangerously  like  her  husband  and  herself. 
That  fiction  in  the  past  built  a  golden  bridge  to  plain  speech 
about  the  status-quo  in  the  present. 

The  substance  and  effect  of  a  letter  almost  too  florid  for  an 
unconcerned  bystander  to  follow  with  sympathy  was  that  the 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  427 

writer's  position  was  unendurable — that  begone  he  must,  and 
that  too  without  letting  his  eyes  rest  once  more  on  the  object 
of  their  adoration.  He  could  not  even  bear,  feeling  towards  her 
as  he  did,  to  touch  her  hand  in  token  of  farewell.  He  must  go 
away,  at  whatever  cost ;  where  he  knew  not.  He  could,  he  knew, 
write  to  Charley — from  whom,  mark  you,  the  understory  of  all 
this  must  be  concealed — a  plausible  reason,  first  for  the  post- 
ponement of  his  return,  then  for  his  ultimate  settlement  in 
some  remote  locality  which  would  lend  itself  to  forgetfulness, 
although  he  could  never  hope  to  meet,  there  or  elsewhere,  per- 
fections which  etcetera. 

There  was  a  full  measure  of  these  cetera;  and  indeed  the  story 
is  more  than  half  inclined  to  forgive  Fred  that  he  did  this  once 
give  the  rein  to  his  passion,  in  a  way  that  was  after  all  but  a 
stinted  indulgence  of  it.  Kemember  that  at  the  moment  he  was 
honest  in  his  intention  to  wrench  himself  away  from  his  temp- 
tation, and  forget  it. 

His  letter  ended  thus — too  late  for  the  evening  post,  but  sure 
to  be  delivered  before  eleven  o'clock  next  day ;  Nancy  would  not 
have  started,  no  fear  of  that — "  This  letter  will  be  handed  to  you 
by  Miss  Fraser,  who  has  kindly  arranged  to  visit  you  to-morrow 
that  you  may  get  it  as  soon  as  possible,  and  know  my  intention. 
I  feel  that  I  lost  a  good  sister-in-law  in  '  Elbows.'  How  strange 
and  long  ago  that  time  seems  now !  .  .  .  What  more  have  I 
to  say?  Only,  forgive  me!  Forgive  me  that,  having  to  choose 
between  two  courses,  either  of  which  means  madness  in  the  end, 
I  choose  the  one  that  keeps  my  faith  to  my  old  schoolfellow 
intact.  It  is  the  one  that  stings  the  most,  for  my  heart  must 
remain  yours.     Farewell !  " 

Charles  Snaith,  who  had  left  his  home  that  morning  feeling 
less  comfortable  than  he  had  felt  since  he  took  possession  of  it, 
in  spite  of  a  particularly  cheerful  visit  he  had  paid  to  his  off- 
spring, was  not  much  surprised  at  Fred's  non-appearance  at  the 
Holborn,  although  he  was  certainly  looking  forward  to  seeing 
him  and  hearing  what  he  had  settled  about  Xorway.  He  decided 
that  he  had  gone  out  to  lunch  somewhere.  However,  Charley 
was  wrong  there,  for  Fred  had  let  his  midday  refection  lapse 
altogether.  He  was  too  perturbed  in  his  mind  to  be  able  to 
think  of  eating  and  drinking,  and  was  living  in  an  uncomfor- 
table world  of  snacks. 

Therefore  it  was  that  Charley,  washing  his  hands  of  the  Law 
earlier  than  usual,  went  three  steps  at  a  time  up  the  prison- 


428  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

stair  that  led  to  the  diggings.  It  was  not  often  that  these 
friends  were  separated — or  had  been  separated  hitherto — for 
over  forty-eight  hours.  Fred  heard  his  name  called  from  out- 
side, and  knew  he  had  to  bo  himself  as  of  old,  now  or  never. 
He  answered  the  summons  promptly,  and  greeted  the  visitor 
warmly. 

"  Come  along  in,  old  chap !  I  knew  it  was  you.  In  fact,  I've 
been  taking  you  for  granted,  or  I  should  have  written." 

Something  in  these  words  ran  counter  to  the  programme  of 
the  next  twenty-four  hours  which  Charley's  mind  had  composed. 
"  But  you're  coming  to  The  Cedars!  "  said  he,  blankly. 

"  Well — that's  wliere  the  shoe  pinches !  No,  I'm  not.  I 
can't." 

"  Kot !  " 

"  Unfortunately  it  isn't  rot,  but  sad  reality.  Coine  along  in 
and  I'll  tell  you."  He  knew  he  had  a  tussle  before  him  to 
convince  his  friend  he  was  in  earnest.  But  it  had  to  be  gone 
through  with.  He  proceeded  with  semi-fiction,  for  there  was  a 
measure  of  truth  in  it — that  he  and  his  conscience  had  agreed 
to  resort  to,  to  cover  his  defection.  '"'  You  see,"  he  said,  "  it's 
my  mother.  You  know  how  much  I  have  wanted  her  to  go 
abroad  with  me,  and  how  she  has  always  refused."  Charley 
nodded.  "  Well — when  I  told  her  I  was  going  to  take  a  holiday, 
she  mentioned  incidentally  that  an  old  friend  of  hers,  Avho  lives 
in  Munich,  had  written  to  her  to  say  she  should  be  in  Paris  in 
a  day  or  two,  and  had  suggested  that  my  mother  should  meet  her 
there,  as  she  hasn't  seen  her  for  fifteen  years   ..." 

"  She  be  hanged  !     Why  can't  she  come  to  London  ?  " 

"  She's  going  with  her  husband  to  Marseilles,  to  meet  a  boat 
that's  going  a  tour  in  the  Greek  Islands — her  husband's  a  Ger- 
man  antiquary — but  they  are  spending  two  days  in  Paris  on 
the  way.  Of  course  I  offered  to  see  the  mother  out,  if  she  would 
go.  I  was  rather  surprised  at  her  saying  she  would.  But  of 
course  I  jumped  at  it." 

Charley  showed  impatience.  He  expressed  a  wish  that  the 
Devil  might  take  all  areha}ologists,  but  especially  German  ones, 
who  were  all  impostors,  and  knew  of  all  things  least  about 
antiquity.  "  But  how  does  that  prevent  your  coming  to  The 
Cedars?  "  said  he. 

'•'  Because  it  makes  the  time  so  short.  These  Ger-persons  have 
only  Sunday,  Monday,  and  Tuesday  in  Paris.  When  my  mother 
consented  to  go,  she  thought  there  was  more  time,  but  when  we 
came  to  look  at  the  letter,  it  turned  out  that  she  had  confused 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  429 

between  this  Sunday  and  the  next.  But  she  had  promised,  and 
I  wasn't  going  to  let  her  off." 

Charley  considered.  "  You're  quite  right,"  said  he.  "  Do  her 
all  the  good  in  the  world!     She  hasn't  been  away  since   ..." 

"  Since  it.     No— that's  just  it !     She  hasn't." 

"  But  why  should  that  prevent  your  coming  with  me  now  ? 
Get  your  traps  and  come  along,  old  man.  You  shall  come  back 
as  early  as  you  like  to-morrow.  Just  think  what  the  missus  will 
say  if  i  don't  bring  you  back.     She'll  make  a  fine  row." 

'•'  I  was  going  to  ieW  you  why  to-night's  no  go.  You  remember 
those  Stockport  people,  Sampson  and  Strongitharm  ?  " 

"  Yes — men  who  wanted  to  put  money  in  the  Anti-Yibration." 

"  Strongitharm  did.  Well — he's  in  town,  and  has  written  to 
say  he'll  be  at  the  Grand  Hotel  at  nine-thirty,  if  I  can  make 
it  convenient  to  look  in.     I  must.     It's  not  a  chance  to  lose." 

"  N-no !  It's  not  a  chance  to  lose.  Lucy  mustn't  stand  in 
your  wav  there.  But  how  about  to-morrow?  I  know  there  are 
some  beasts  coming,  but  we  can  lump  them.  Anyhow,  we 
must." 

Then  Fred  promised,  mendaciously,  to  come  to-morrow  if  he 
could.  There  had  been  foundations  of  truth  for  every  word  he 
had  said  hitherto.  The  letter  from  Stockport  was  quite  gen- 
uine; a  piece  of  luck!  "You  see,  Charley,"  said  he,  "it's  a 
close  squeak  for  time.  I  may  manage  to-morrow — will  if  I  can." 
Then  he  indulged  in  the  only  honest  untruth  of  which  he  was 
guilty.  ■  "  You  know,  it  isn't  as  if  I  wasn't  coming  back  in  a 
week  or  two  at  most." 

If  Charley's  unsuspicion  had  not  filmed  his  eyesight,  he  would 
have  seen  how  haggard  his  friend's  face  was,  how  strained  his 
manner.  He  saw  enough  to  make  him  say  to  himself  that  a 
chap  that  looked  like  that  would  be  all  the  better  for  a  little 
sea-air,  mountain-climbing,  what  not.  ...  To  Fred  he  said : — 
"Oh  no — it's  not  a  hanging  matter;  Luce  will  have  to  do  with- 
out you  for  a  bit.  But  I  shall  catch  it  hot,  young  feller — and 
so  I  tell  you.  However,  come  to-morrow  if  you  can.  If  you 
can't — why,  you  can't !     Now  I  must  be  off." 

The  thought  crossed  Fred's  mind  that  he  might  never  see 
Charley's  face  again.  Yet  he  was  glad  he  had  gone — almost. 
He  was  sick  to  think  how  nearly. 


CHAPTEE  XXVIII 

This  was  the  afternoon  of  the  day  on  which  Nancy,  having 
duly  received  Fred's  letter  to  Lucy,  registered,  had  cycled  over 
to  deliver  it  to  her  at  The  Cedars.  She  had  written  to  say  she 
was  coming,  so  she  was  expected. 

"  Sorry  to  inflict  myself  on  you  again  so  soon !  "  said  she. 
''  But  I  was  asked  to  bring  you  a  letter." 

"  You  were  asked  to  bring  me  a  letter !  Well  now,  what  does 
that  mean  ?  " 

"  What  it  says.     Here's  the  letter." 

"  Who's  it  from  ?  " 

"  Look  inside  and  you'll  see."  Nancy's  style  was  epigram- 
matic. She  had  in  fact  made  up  her  mind  to  answer  no  ques- 
tions, and  conveyed  that  resolve  by  a  certain  immobility  of 
feature  as  she  held  Fred's  letter  out  for  her  friend  to  take. 
"  Now  I've  given  it  you,  haven't  I  ? "  said  she.  "  Fair  and 
square  as  per  undertaking." 

"  Yes ;  you've  done  your  part."  ^Mrs.  Charles  Snaith  was 
pale — beautiful  of  course — as  she  looked  for  a  moment  at  the 
letter,  which  she  thrust  hurriedly  into  her  bosom;  not  what  one 
generally  does  with  a  letter. 

"  Look  here !  "  said  Nancy,  abruptly.  "  I  shall  go  and  pay 
Charles  the  Third  a  visit,  while  vou  read  your  letter." 

"Oh— that  baby?  Very  well.  Go,  dear!"  She  did  not 
open  the  letter  then  and  there,  but  fell  back  on  a  sofa,  white 
with  a  bitten  lip.  She  was  asking  herself,  would  Fred  come 
back  with  Charles  to-night?  L^nless  the  answer  was  negative, 
why  this  letter?  Sounds  of  an  appreciated  baby — these  sounds 
differ  absolutely  from  everything  else  of  which  the  human  voice 
is  capable — had  been  for  some  time  audible  from  the  nursery 
before  she  slipped  her  hand  into  her  bosom  in  search  of  it. 
Even  then  she  did  not  pull  it  out  at  once,  seeming  to  flinch 
and  vacillate. 

But  once  fairly  opened  and  the  first  words  read,  the  text 
became  the  source  of  a  greedy  pleasure  to  her,  visible  on  her  lips 
without  a  smile,  in  her  e3'es  without  a  gleam.  ...  It  was  not 
a  secret  to  show,  even  though  not  a  soul  was  there  to  see.  She 
read  on  and  on,  through  the  long  letter  to  the  end. 

430 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  431 

Then  the  anger,  that  had  begun  to  grow,  half-way  through, 
broke  out  in  its  fulness,  and  forced  speech  from  her  lips,  though 
there  was  none  but  herself  to  hear  the  words.  "  Then  let  him 
go — let  him  go !  "  she  cried  out  to  the  empty  air.  "  ^Vhat 
thought  has  he  for  me  in  this?"  She  went  to  the  door  after 
that,  as  though  in  doubt  if  she  had  been  overheard,  and  looked 
up  and  down.  But  there  was  none  to  hear  her.  And  nothing 
audible  but  the  prolonged  appreciation  of  Charles  the  Third — 
Nancy's  name  for  him — in  the  distant  nursery. 

She  threw  herself  again  on  the  sofa,  the  letter  half  crumpled 
angrily  in  her  hand.  She  was  exasperated  with  herself,  with 
Fred,  with  the  World.  And  her  inner  consciousness  was  assign- 
ing a  meaning  to  this  last,  beyond  its  usual  interpretation.  She 
called  it  the  World,  but  she  meant  her  mother.  She  had  told 
that  impressive  lady,  to  her  stony  surprise,  on  the  morning  after 
the  theatre,  that  it  was  perfectly  ridiculous  in  her  to  try  to  throw 
the  blame  of  something — something  not  very  clearly  defined — 
on  that  woman  whom  she  had  been  quarrelling  with,  about  the 
said  something,  on  the  previous  evening.  What  had  the  woman 
done,  when  all  was  said,  but  mentioned  some  facts  about 
Charles's  family  that  were  just  as  true  now  as  they  were  then? 
She  could  not  lay  at  her  mother's  door  the  sole  blame  for  accept- 
ing them  as  guides,  when  she  knew  the  extent  to  which  she  her- 
self had  been  influenced  by  them.  So  she  made  an  abstraction, 
the  World,  into  a  scapegoat,  and  denounced  it  mentally  for  her 
marriage  with   ...   a  man  she  respected. 

For  she  had  no  fault  to  find  with  Charley,  except  that  he 
stood  between  her  and  her  heart's  desire.  In  fact,  she  had  an 
almost  cordial  liking  for  her  husband — was  very  sorry  for  him, 
anyhow.  If  she  had  not  been  amiably  disposed  towards  him  she 
would  not  have  given  herself  away  to  him — that  saw  itself — 
however  tempting  might  have  been  the  prospect  of  a  not  too 
remote  contingency;  which  she  and  her  mother,  by  common 
consent,  never  referred  to  specifically  now.  Indeed,  even  in  dis- 
cussing last  night's  wrangle,  no  mention  had  been  made  of  the 
noble  Earl  and  his  coronet,  and  the  barren  prospects  of  an  heir 
direct.  All  details  were  ignored,  held  in  abeyance.  But  there 
was  no  disputing  that  Charley,  minus  these  contingent  possi- 
bilities, was  a  very  different  prize  from  what  he  seemed  when 
they  were  both  contingent  and  possible. 

Therefore  her  anchorage  in  her  domestic  haven,  which  she 
might  have  acquiesced  in  as  long  as  she  and  Love  remained 
strangers,  as  on  the  whole  a  very  fair  samjDle  of  a  human  lot, 


432  TPIE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

in  consideration  of  prosperities  to  come,  had  become  an  irksome 
bondage.  It  had  been  that,  unconfessed,  for  some  time  past, 
when  the  sudden  revelation  had  come  of  the  state  of  mind  of  a 
man  whose  passion  for  herself  had  been  as  nearly  anticipated  by 
her  own  heart  as  might  be,  taking  into  account  that  she  had  half 
believed  his  own  was  given  away  elsewhere. 

And  now  all  the  resolution  of  this  discord  that  this  man  could 
see  his  way  to  was  that  he  should  take  to  flight,  and  run  like 
a  coward !  Friendship  was  to  take  precedence  of  Love !  We 
were  to  "  master  our  passions,  Love  in  chief,  and  be  loyal  to  our 
friends."  She  recalled  the  words  of  Browning's  poem,  and  they 
brought  an  almost  ugly  look  to  her  beautiful  face.  "  \^niere  is 
his  thought  of  me,  in  all  this?" — said  she  again,  as  before. 

One  thing  the  letter  made  quite  clear.  He  would  not  come 
to  see  her  again,  before  he  went  away.  He  would  not  dare — 
not  he ! — to  look  her  in  the  face  and  say : — "  I  must  leave 
3'ou  for  your  husband's  sake,  for  the  sake  of  my  old  friend." 
He  would  run — would  vanisli — would  become  a  thing  of  the 
past — would  take  to  his  heart  the  next  woman  he  longed 
for.    .    .    . 

Well — let  him  !  She  had  her  lesson,  and  understood.  Xo 
need  to  caution  her  so  strongly  to  let  no  clue  to  all  this  reach 
the  knowledge  of  her  husband !  Was  she  a  downright  fool,  to 
lose  a  useful  mate  whom  she  was  pledged  to  love  and  honour, 
because  forsooth  a  man  whom  she  loved  outright  might  have 
claimed  her  as  his  own;  but  would  not,  thereby  to  keep  his 
conscience  clear,  and  not  betray  his  friend?  No — if  she  must 
lose  Fred,  so  be  it!  Why  should  she  be  less  considerate  of 
Charles  than  he?  Keep  the  pretext  in  trim.  Foster  the 
decorum  of  the  British  household.  Give  gossip  no  plea  for 
comment  on  the  coolness  between  the  married  couple  at  The 
Cedars.     Baffle  Mrs.  Candour ! 

That  was  Nancy,  coming  from  the  nursery.  Was  she  to 
know  anything  of  this?     Did  she  know  anything  of  this? 

'^  Dear ! — how  white  you  look !  "  This  cut  across  a  languid 
enquiry  from  Lucy: — "Well — how's  the  blessed  baby?  I  ought 
to  go  up  and  see  him,  I  suppose.  I'm  supposed  to  be  his 
mother,  I  believe."  Nancy  responded : — "  I  should  rather  think 
you  are.     Wish  I  was !  " 

"  You  may  have  him,  dear,  as  far  as  I'm  concerned.  But 
I'm  afraid  his  father  won't  give  him  up.  He's  infatuated  about 
him." 

"  He's  not  an  unnatural  beast,"  said  Nancy,   imperturbably. 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  43-3 

iSTeither  of  these  ladies  seemed  to  wish  the  other  to  think  her  in 
earnest. 

The  conversation  did  nothino;  towards  answering?  the  question 
Lucy  had  asked  herself.  Did  Xancy  know,  or  not?  The  safest 
thing  would  be  to  skirt  round  the  topic,  with  an  eye  to  cross- 
ing the  fence  if  a  chance  came.  "  Mrs.  Carteret  is  going  to 
take  her  son  away  from  us,  I  understand,"  said  Lucy,  tenta- 
tively. 

"  That's  the  way  he  puts  it  in  the  letter,  is  it  ?  " 

"  I  gathered  as  much  from  something  he  said  in  his  letter," 
said  Lucy,  reservedly. 

"  Very  well.  If  you  want  me  not  to  talk  about  it,  I  won't." 
This  was  in  response  to  the  barest  hint  that  the  letter  was  to 
her,  not  to  the  general  public. 

Lucy  hesitated.  "  I  should  so  much  like  to  know,  dear,"  said 
she,  "  how  much  ...  I  mean  whether  Fred  Carteret  said  any- 
thing at  all  to  you  of  the  contents  of  the  letter."  She  made 
the  alteration  in  her  speech  to  soften  down  the  meaning — to 
keep  it  a  little  off  the  point. 

"  Precious  little  to  me,"  said  Nancy.  "  Wliat  he  said,  he  said 
to  his  mother.  She  told  me  things.  I  waited  up  on  purpose 
to  hear." 

^'  And  does  he  know  how  much  you  know  about  it?  " 

"  Eather.  I  told  him  flatly.  That's  why  he  gave  me  the 
letter  to  bring.  He  couldn't  have  made  a  reason  for  my  bring- 
ing it  unless  he  knew  I  knew." 

"  ^^^^at  reason  did  he  make?     I  don't  know  if  I  quite  see." 

"  You'll  see  if  I  tell  it  all  through.  He  wanted  me  to  bring 
you  this  letter,  and  I  said  why  on  earth  not  send  it  by  Mr. 
Snaith.  He  could  only  hum  and  haw,  and  say  there  were 
reasons.  So  I  just  asked  him  what  he  was  going  to  say  in  it. 
That  was  the  most  natural  thing — wasn't  it?  " 

Lucy  did  not  keep  back  a  smile.  "  You  are  the  funniest  girl," 
said  she.  "What  had  he  to  say  to  that?  What  was  his  most 
natural  answer?  " 

Nancy  did  not  look  exactly  resentful.  Dignified,  perhaps. 
"  He  did  not  seem  to  see  anything  peculiar  in  the  question,"  she 
said.  "  He  said  the  letter  would  merely  be  to  say  good-bye  to 
you.  So  to  make  his  mind  easy,  I  just  told  him  1  knew  all 
about  it.  I  think  he  felt  that  was  all  right."  She  thought  a 
minute  before  adding: — "  Of  course  having  had  a  narrow  squeak 
of  being  a  party's  sister-in-law  doesn't  make  one  exactly  a  party's 
father-confessor,  but  .    .    .   Well ! — it  intimatises  things,  don't 


434  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

you  see?    Things  which  would,  otherwise,  be  extimate.    Like  in- 
ternal and  external,  don't  you  know  ?  " 

"  Oh  dear  yes ! — I  quite  understand.  A  man  would  never  be 
quite  the  same  who   .    .    .   even  as  a  duty   ..." 

"  Precisely  !  "  Nancy  produced  a  clean  pocket-handkerchief 
— not  the  bicycle  one ;  that  was  in  abeyance — and  wiped  a  mem- 
ory of  Fred  off  her  face.  "  However,  we  didn't  rake  up  details. 
He  pitched  it  very  strong  that,  come  what  might,  Mr.  Snaith 
must  be  kept  out  of  it." 

"  Listen,  you  mad  child,  and  tell  me  one  thing  seriously.  Did 
he  make  any  allusion  to  me?  " 

Nancy  saw  the  pallor  of  the  speaker's  face,  and  felt  glad  that 
she  herself  was  "  out  of  it,"  the  "  it "  she  was  out  of  being 
explained — by  herself  to  herself — as  "  Love  and  all  that  sort  of 
thing";  a  sort  of  thing  to  which  female  beauty,  preferably 
accompanied  by  a  certain  succulence  or  tenderness,  was  an  essen- 
tial she  did  not  possess,  so  she  was  safe  out  of  it.  Nothing  to 
tempt  a  cannibal  in  her! — that  was  how  she  worded  explana- 
tion, possibly  needed.  But  she  could  sympathise  with  friends 
whose  outline  and  texture  had  entangled  them  in  that  sort  of 
thing.  In  answer  to  Lucy's  question  she  thought  long  enough 
over  the  answer  to  make  it  exactly  true,  and  replied : — "  I  can't 
say  exactly  he  didn't  make  any  allusion  to  you,  because  we  both 
did,  and  called  you  her.  But  what  you  mean  is — did  he  talk 
about  you?     Isn't  it?" 

"  Yes — ahout  me.     What  did  he  say  about  me?  " 

"  Nothing.  And  I  wasn't  going  to  ask  him."  Lucy  crossed 
to  the  window,  and  stood  looking  out.  Nancy  added : — "  It 
isn't  any  of  it  my  fault,  3'ou  know." 

But  the  flash  of  resentment  Lucy  had  hidden — the  bitten  lip 
that  spoke  of  a  swelling  heart;  the  passionate  tears  so  hard  to 
keep  back — was  not  against  her  friend.  She  quenched  it,  and 
returned  whiter  than  ever,  otherwise  in  possession  of  herself. 
"  No — dearest  child !  "  said  she.  "  I  know  it  isn't  your  fault." 
For  she  always  spoke  to  Nancy  as  though  to  a  junior, 
although  she  was  really  two  or  three  years  the  younger  of  the 
two. 

"  I  wish  he  hadn't  bottled  up  so,  but  said  more.  Then  I 
could  have  told  you."  Thus  Nancy,  with  the  afterthought : — 
"  But  I  thought  it  would  all  be  in  the  letter.  Isn't  it?  "  Then 
a  revision  of  it : — "  No — what  a  fool  I  am  I  Of  course,  the 
letter  wasn't  written  then.  If  he  had  said  anything  to  me  about 
you  he  would  have  told  you." 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  435 

"  Well — he  doesn't  refer  to  you  in  the  letter,  except  to  say 
that  you  will  bring  it."  As  if  infected  with  Xancy's  accuracy 
she  reopened  the  letter,  glanced  at  it,  and  said : — "  Oh  yes — he 
says  he  lost  a  good  sister-in-law,  when  ..." 

"  When  he  didn't  marry  Cit."  Then  Nancy  used  the  very 
expression  Fred  had  used.  "  Oh  dear — what  a  long  time  ago 
that  all  seems  !  " 

"  Exactly  what  he  says  himself,"  said  Lucy. 

"  I  always  think  now,"  said  Nancy,  "  that  I  knew  what  was 
coming  then.     But  perhaps  I'm  only  I-told-you-soing." 

Lucy  followed  the  new  verb,  and  understood  it.  "  Oh, 
Nancy,"  said  she,  "I  hope  you  don't  mean  that  I   .    .    ." 

"  That  you  whatted  ?  " 

"That  I  did  anything  that  day  wlien  ..." 

"  I  know  when.  No — you  were  quite  maidenly  and  all  that 
sort  of  game,  that  time.     I  don't  go  by  you.     I  go  by  Cit." 

"What  did  Cit  do?" 

"  She  flew  out.  Like  a  Turk.  But  it  wasn't  your  fault.  It 
was  all  Fred.     Not  but  what,  in  his  place   ..." 

"  '  In  his  place ! '     What  were  you  going  to  say?  " 

"  In  his  place,  I  might  have  been  just  as  bad.  If  I  had  been 
a  him,  you  know  !  "- 

"  You  are  a  queer  girl !  You  look  so  innocent,  and  then  you 
seem  to  know  such  a  lot,  about  it." 

Nancy  shot  back  into  her  shell  like  a  hermit-crab  detected 
out  of  doors.  "  I  don't  see  that  there's  anytliing  to  know  about," 
said  she,  stiffly.  Then,  perhaps  to  change  the  subject,  she  went 
off  at  a  tangent.  "  I  tell  you  one  thing  though.  I  never  said 
what  I  ought  to  have  seen — that  Fred  wasn't  really  in  love  with 
Cit,  all  along.   ..." 

"  Not  in  love  ?  "  asked  Lucy,  in  an  odd,  inquiring  way. 

"  Not  as  he  ought  to  have  been." 

"  Ought  people  ?  "  Lucy  did  not  ask  this  question  as  one  who 
expects  an  answer,  but  as  one  who  casts  doubt.  Then  she  fairly 
took  her  hearer's  breath  away  by  saying,  without  emotion: — 
"  I  was  never  in  love  with  my  husband." 

"  I  don't  believe  you !  "  said  Nancy,  flatly. 

"  Don't  if  you  like.  But  it's  true.  Of  course  I  don't  mean 
that  I  dislike  him,  don't  you  know?  I  respect  him  and  all  that. 
He's  the  sort  of  man  it  would  be  very  creditable  to  any  woman 
to  be  in  love  with.     I  quite  see  that.     But  ..." 

"  I  wish  you  wouldn't  talk  so  horribly.     But  what  ?  " 

"  But  there  are  limits." 


436  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

"  You  should  have  thought  of  that  before  you  married  him." 
Nancy  was  very  much  excited ;  flushed  and  ahnost  angry. 

''  That  sounds  very  correct,"  said  Lucy,  more  as  thougli  it 
really  did  than  as  a  sneer.  She  spoiled  it  though,  by  saying: — 
"  How  I  hate  heroics!  I  wish,  dear,  you  wouldn't  mind  coming 
down  off  the  high  horse,  and  talking  reasonably." 

'"•  I  hate  reason.  Ecasonableness  is  out  of  it,  when  it's  about 
— this  sort  of  thing." 

"  So  it  seems !  "  said  Lucy,  coldly.  But  when  she  next  spoke, 
she  got  no  answer,  and  turning  round  to  look  for  one,  found  she 
was  alone.  For  her  friend  had  vanished,  and  the  reason  thereof 
was  clear  a  moment  later,  when  a  bicycle  bell's  sub-tinkle  was 
audible  outside.  She  went  out  of  the  room,  and  into  the  front 
garden,  just  as  the  rider  was  mounting.  "  I'm  so  sorry,"  she 
said.  "Do  please  forgive  me!  Only  this  once.  I'll  be  as 
sentimental  as  you  like."     But  her  tone  was  ill-chosen. 

"  Xow  you're  making  matters  worse,"  said  Xancy,  grimly. 

Lucy  changed  her  note.  "  Xancy  darling!  "  said  she  appeal- 
ingly.  "  Don't  be  angry  with  me.  If  3'ou  knew  what  it  was 
to   .    .    .   to  be  like  me   ..." 

"■  I  see  that  you're  in  a  fix,"  Xancy  interrupted.  "  But  you 
got  yourself  into  it." 

"Does  that  make  it  any  easier  to  bear?  Oh — don't  be  so 
hard  with  me !     At  any  rate,  don't  go !  " 

"  I  don't  see  why  I  shouldn't.  I've  given  you  the  letter,  and 
that's  what  I  came  for.  .  .  .  Xo — I  do  not  see  why  one  should 
stay  to  have  a  dose  of  common  sense  emptied  into  one's  very 
vitals.  Xot  but  what  " — relenting  a  little — "  I  like  common 
sense  in  its  proper  place,  only  not  in  this  connection."  But  she 
was  giving  in  to  the  pathos  of  the  large  dark  eyes. 

So,  as  was  to  be  expected,  when  Lucy  spoke  to  her,  or  seemed 
to  speak,  from  her  heart,  she  gave  up  the  point,  and  went  back 
into  the  house  to  their  former  anchorage ;  but  this  time  with  a 
carefully  closed  door,  to  shut  in  a  real  confidence. 

**'  I'm  sorry  I  was  so  miffy,"  said  Xancy,  apologetically.  "  But 
you  did  seem  to  me  so  very  unfair  to  ]\Ir.  Snaith." 

"  Xancy  dearest,"  said  Lucy,  "  suppose  I  tell  you  everything ! 
If  you  would  let  me,  I  think  I  would  rather." 

Xancy  said  afterwards  to   Mrs.   Carteret : — "  I   didn't  above 
half  like  being  told,  but  what  was  I  to  do?  "     She  then  repeated     V 
what    she    had    done,    which    was    to    say: — "All    right — fire 
away !  " 

Lucy  produced  Fred's  letter.     It  seemed  to  concentrate  and 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  437 

define  the  topic.  "  I  suppose  you  know,  or  half  know,  what  lie 
has  written  to  me,"  she  said. 

"  I'm  not  sure  that  I  did,  till  you  asked.  But  I  do  now,  from 
your  way  of  puttinoj  it." 

"However,  you  knew  generally?"  Nancy  nodded.  "Dear, 
I  can't  tell  you  what  a  relief  it  would  be  to  me,  if  you  would 
only  say  you  are  sorry  for  me." 

Xancy  considered.  "  I'm  not  given  to  being  sorry  for  people 
who  get  themselves  into  fixes  over  this  sort  of  thing,"  she  said. 
"  The  T.P.  isn't  exactly  my  line.  But  I'm  sorry  for  ]\Ir.  Car- 
teret.    Because  I  see  he  couldn't  help  himself." 

"Oh  dear — then  you  are  not  sorry  for  me?  I  suppose  I 
deserve  it." 

The  conversation  had  wavered  on  the  edge  of  seriousness,  but 
had  never  crossed  over  the  boundary.  Xancy  suddenly  flung 
reserve  aside,  more  suo.  She  turned  on  her  friend,  face  flushed 
and  eyes  flashing,  with : — "  Lucy  Snaith  ! — how  dared  you  marry 
your  husband  ?  " 

The  beautiful  woman  flinched  before  the  plain  one — she  was 
plain  by  comparison — and  threw  up  her  hands,  almost  as  though 
to  ward  off'  a  blow.  "  Oh,  what  could  I  do — what  could  I  do?  " 
she  cried  out,  despairingly.  "  Indeed — indeed  I  liked  him  as 
well  as  any  man  I  knew  at  the  time.  And  think  what  it  was, 
when  he  was  so  urgent  and  my  mother  backed  him  up  so   .    .    ." 

"  What  made  3'our  mother  back  him  up  ?  "  Xancy  was  not 
going  to  think  this  question  and  not  ask  it. 

Xow,  though  Lucy  and  her  mother  rarely  agreed,  they  were 
mother  and  daughter.  And  a  daughter  may  slate  her  mother 
eti  famille,  but  not  in  the  market-place.  So  she  palliates  her 
always;  before  enemies,  usually  before  friends.  She  introduced 
a  scapegoat.  "  I  don't  think  3'ou  know  the  woman,"  said  she. 
"  Mrs.  Bannister  Stair — do  you?  " 

"  Xot  in  the  least.     What  about  her  ?  " 

"Well — she  quite  poisoned  mamma's  susceptible  mind  with 
stories  about  Charles's  connections,  and  his  great  expectations. 
And  poor  dear  mamma,  who  is  simplicity  itself  about  this  soit 
of  thing,  swallowed  it  all  down  for  Gospel." 

Xancy  felt  incredulous  about  the  simplicity,  but  she  kept  her 
scepticism  in  the  background,  saying  merely : — "  And  I  suppose 
there  wasn't  a  word  of  truth  in  it  ?  " 

"  Xot  a  word !  At  least,  I  should  say,  it  was  all  right  enough 
about  the  connections,  but  it  was  all  wrong  about  the  expecta- 
tions.    Charles's  father  was  a  younger  son  who  had  quarrelled 


438  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

with  his  family.  And  if  he  hadn't,  he  couldn't  possibly  have 
come  into  the  title." 

"  The  title  !    Were  they  dukes,  then  ?  " 

"  Something  of  that  sort.  Earls  or  marquises,  I  believe.  I 
knew  nothing  about  it,  and  am  not  supposed  to  know." 

"Your  mother  knew,  and  you  didn't.     You  mean  that?" 

"  Yes — of  course !  "  Lucy  felt  as  if  she  was  telling  truth  all 
through,  because  she  was  only  saying  yes  and  no.  If  she  had 
been  called  on  to  say  unblushingly : — "  I  was  told  nothing  about 
my  husband's  prospects,  and  I  never  asked,"  she  would  have 
spoken  the  lie  boldly  for  what  Prussia  calls  military  reasons — 
her  own  exoneration  at  any  cost  being  the  chief  one.  As  it 
was,  she  paid  Truth  the  compliment  of  feeling  happy  she  could 
manage  the  job  with  monosyllables.  Having  used  them,  she  got 
away  as  quick  as  possible  to  her  mother  and  Mrs.  Stair,  chiefly 
the  latter.  "You'll  understand  now,  dear,  why  I  hate  the 
woman  as  I  do.  It  was  her  ridiculous  officious  nonsense  that 
set  my  mother  off  about  Charles;  and  after  all  she  was  only 
acting  in  her  daughter's  interest,  as  she  thought.  Parents  do 
that  kind  of  thing,  I  am  told.  I  wish  they  wouldn't.  Because 
they  make  mistakes.     She  certainly  did." 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say,"  said  Nancy,  drastically,  "  that  if  it 
had  not  been  for  your  mother  you  would  have  refused  Mr. 
Snaith?" 

"  My  dear,  how  can  I  tell?  All  I  can  say  is,  that  my  mother 
was  verv  urgent.     And  at  the  time   ..." 

"Which  time?" 

"  When  the  arrangement  was  made." 

"  I  see.  When  he  was  spooneying  up  to  you.  Go  on.  At 
that  time   ..." 

"  At  that  time  I  certainly  knew  no  one  I  liked  better  than 
Mr.  Snaith.  I  am  sure  of  it.  I  am  not  quite  prepared  to  say 
I  accepted  him  to  oblige  mamma." 

"  But  it's  on  those  lines?  " 

"  You  may  put  it  that  way.     I  really  had  no  strong  motive." 

"  So  you  added  a  lot  of  weak  ones  together.     Wasn't  that  it  ?  " 

The  beautiful  eyes  looked  aimlessly  at  space  under  half-closed 
lids,  and  their  owner  replied : — "  It  may  have  been.  I  daresay 
it  was."  But  she  appeared  dissatisfied  with  her  own  answer,  for 
a  moment  later  she  added : — "  Perhaps.     Perhaps  not." 

Nancy's  face  remained  fixed,  as  of  set  purpose.  She  waited 
for  clear  evidence  that  her  friend  had  done  speaking  and  then 
said  abruptly: — "Well — which  luas  it?" 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  439 

Lucy  may  have  thought — as  Fred  had  done  before  her — that 
perhaps,  after  all,  outspeech  would  be  the  safest  course  as  well 
as  the  easiest,  with  this  girl.  "  There !  "  she  said  suddenly,  "  I 
won't  make  any  more  pretences.  You  are  so  dreadfully  truth- 
ful, Nancy  dear,  that  it  quite  gets  on  one's  nerves.  .  .  . 
Look  the  other  way  and  I'll  tell  you !  " 

"  Stuff !     Tell  me  without." 

"  ^Yell — it  isn't  fair  of  me  to  put  it  all  on  my  mother.  It's 
no  use  pretending  I  didn't  know  the  whole  story.  Or  that  I 
wasn't  influenced  by  it,  for  that  matter!     I  was." 

"  It  was  a  good  big  story  to  be  influenced  by,  after  all."  This 
meant  that  Nancy's  mind  was  seeking  to  palliate  her  friend, 
purely  for  friendship's  sake.  For  she  found  the  materials  bad 
to  handle. 

"  You  wouldn't  have  been  influenced  by  it,  you  know  you 
wouldn't.     Come  now  !  " 

"  Couldn't  say  what  would  happen  if  some  Dukes  and  Earls 
turned  up  among  my  admirers.  None  have,  so  far.  But  then 
nobody  else  has,  for  that  matter!  However,  I  am  very  sensi- 
tive to  large  landed  estates,  with  villagers."  Nancy  knew  she 
was  talking  nonsense. 

Lucy  passed  by  the  points  raised.  "  I  admit  this  to  you,  dear, 
because  I  know  you  won't  be  hard  upon  me.  But  of  course  my 
husband  is  in  blessed  ignorance,  and  I  hope  will  remain  so. 
Because  I  value  his  esteem — and  all  that  sort  of  thing.  You 
understand  ?  " 

"  I  understand  that  when  you  talk  in  that  way  you  make  my 
flesh  creep." 

"  Nancy  dear !  Why  should  we  be  so  artificial  ?  Eemember 
that  I  have  to  live  with  the  knowledge  that  I  do  not  love  my 
husband.  I  certainly  respect  him.  Oh  yes — I  respect  him. 
But  as  for  love   ..." 

Nancy  rose  in  her  wrath.  "  Lucy,  I  tell  you  I — will — not  talk 
to  you,  if  you  talk  in  that  horrible  way.  Do  you  mean  to  say  you 
married  Mr.  Snaith  without  feeling  the  smallest   .    .    .  ?  " 

The  beautiful  woman  thought  over  it,  quite  deliberately.  ''  I 
don't  think  I  do,"  she  said  at  last.  "  Because  I  remember  feel- 
ing quite  an  affection  for  him  once.  It  was  his  enthusiasm  about 
Mr.  Carteret  that  made  me  like  him,  after  he  first  brought 
him  to  Devonshire  Place.  I  told  him  it  was  delightful  to 
hear  a  man  sing  the  praises  of  his  friend.  So  he  went  on 
singing  them,  and  I  listened.  Yes — I  really  liked  him  for 
that." 


440  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

"That  wasn't  being  in  love!"  Nancy  spoke  scornfully,  and 
as  if  she  were  an  authority,  of  wide  experience. 

"  Well,  Nancy  dear,  I  "can't  unmake  the  facts,  to  oblige  any- 
body. It  was  enough  to  make  any  woman  like  him,  to  hear  him 
talk  about  Fred  Carteret." 

'•  I  don't  see  anything  to  apologise  for.  I  think  it  perfectly 
contemptible  to  be  unable  to  like  a  man  because  .   .   .  of  .   .   ." 

"■'  Because  of  what?  " 

"  Because  he  isn't  up  to  one's  ideas  of  personal  beauty." 

"  You  weren't  going  to  say  that.  You  were  going  to  say  be- 
cause of  something." 

"  Well — if  you  insist  upon  it,  because  of  his  nose." 

"  I  do  insist  upon  it.  But  I  must  confess  that  for  a  long 
while  Charles's  nose  did  stand  between  us.  In  fact,  I  don't  think 
I  should  ever  have  got  over  it — the  nose — if  my  mother  had 
not  trotted  out  the  earldom.  It  was  all  that  odious  woman's 
doing." 

"  But  she  told  you  nothing  but  what  was  true — at  the  time. 
You  know  it  was." 

"  I  know  nothing  of  the  sort.  She  knew  perfectly  well  what 
the  position  was.  She  admitted  as  much  to  my  mother  only  two 
nights  ago,  when  we  were  at  the  play,  and  my  mother  told  me 
yesterday.  If  she  had  known  at  the  time,  it  would  have  made 
all  the  difference.  Oh  dear— it's  past  praying  for  now !  "  She 
sighed  wearily,  and  sat  listlessly  fanning  herself.  For  ^he 
smnmer  day  had  grown  very  hot,  and  thunder  was  muttering 
all  round,  perhaps  about  how  chilly  the  air  was  going  to  be 
after  its  innings  were  over. 

There  was  one  point  which  even  Nancy's  directness  scrupled  to 
make  the  subject  of  undisguised  catechism.  She  could  not  say 
to  her  friend : — "  Your  affection  for  your  husband  is  very  slip- 
shod, but  does  that  mean  that  you  love  Fred  Carteret?"  She 
wanted  an  answer  to  this  question,  for  all  that !  Fred's  mother 
had  told  her  nearly  all  the  version  of  the  garden  interview  she 
had  had  from  her  .son,  but  had  rather  made  light  of  it,  saying — 
as  she  had  done  to  him— that  a  kiss  was  not  conclusive  and  that 
its  passive  reception  did  not  necessarily  imply  a  readiness  on  the 
lady's  part  to  throw  up  the  advantages  of  an  established  social 
position  for  the  sake  of  its  giver.  Nancy  was  as  nearly  within 
reach  of  an  answer  to  this  question  as  she  was  ever  likely  to  be. 
Was  the  opportunity  to  be  let  slip? 

She  owed  it  to  "Mrs.  Carteret  to  get  what  light  she  could 
thrown  on  this  question.     "  Do  you  mean  to  write  to  him,  or  do 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  441 

you  not?''  seemed  to  her  a  concession  to  a  polite  delicacy  of 
"speech,  a  departure  towards  tact  somewhat  outside  her  usual 
outrightness ;  and  at  the  same  time  likely  to  lead  to  useful 
information. 

"Do  I,  or  do  I  not?     How  can  I  tell?     What  should  you  do 
in  my  position?  " 

"  I  should  never  be  in  your  position.  So  where's  the  use  of 
talking  about  it  ?  " 

"■  The  use  is  that  I  want  to  know.     What  should  you   .    .    .  ?  " 
"  I  haven't  the  slightest  idea." 

"  Look  at  this,  Xancy !     I'll  tell  you  honest  truth.     I  despise 
Fred  Carteret.     Yes — 1  despise  him  for  running  away." 
'•  Then  you  don't  love  him,  according  to  my  ideas." 
"Perhaps  not.     But  I  ivant  him.     I  want  him  back.     \Miat 
right    has   he   to    place    his    love    for    his    friend    above   .    .    . 
above  .    .    .  ? " 

"Above  ?/o»?     Is  that  it?" 
"  Yes— that's  what  I  mean.     What  right?  " 
"  Can't  say !     But  I  should  run  away,  if  I  were  in  his  place." 
"Why?"     jSTancy  found  this  too  difficult  to  answer  offhand. 
Yet  she  was  probably  as  well  able  to  sympathise  with  a  young 
man  in  Fred's  position  as  any  young  woman  of  her  class  and 
upbringing.     So  her  answer  hung  fire,  and   Lucy  repeated  : — 
"  ]yhij  should  you  run  away?  " 

jS'ancy  saw  safety  in  metaphor.  "  Wiien  I  was  a  small,"  said 
she,  "and  was  told  I  wasn't  to  steal  sugar,  I  ran  away  from 
the  basin." 

Lucy  caught  her  up  resentfully.  "  That's  the  sort  of  thing 
people  say,""she  said,  "  and  it  maddens  me.  Are  women  always 
to  be  a  sort  of  lollipops,  to  be  taken  or  left?  " 

"  It's  their  own  doing.  What  do  they  fig  up  for,  except  to 
be  titbits?"  The  story's  belief  is  that  though  Nancy  worded 
this  question  on  the  surface  of  the  subject — indeed  how  could  she 
do  otherwise? — yet  it  went  to  the  very  root  or  source  of  it. 

"  Lucy's  reply  showed  a  wider  experience,  probal)ly.  She 
accepted  the  sugar  metaphor.  "  Do  you  mean  to  say,  Xancy," 
she  asked,  "  that  you  couldn't  leave  the  sugar  alone,  after  you 
had  been  told  not  to  touch  it  ?  " 

"  Xo,  I  couldn't,"  said  Xancy,  with  decision.     "  I  ran  away 
from  the  basin.    .    .    .   You  won't  get  round  that  way."     These 
last  words  betrayed  a  sense  of  the  unsoundness  of  the  metaphor, 
and  a  suspicion  of  the  danger  of  relying  on  it. 
"  You  must  have  been  a  very  naughty  child." 


442  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

"  Xo,  I  wasn't.     I  was  human." 

"  You  mean,  then,  that  Fred  Carteret  is  running  away  because 
he's  human  ?  " 

"  Just  exactly  that.  He  can't  help  himself.  He  has  abso- 
lutely no  course  open  to  him  except  to  run  away — from  the 
basin." 

"  You've  got  back  to  the  sugar  again.  I  don't  think  it  a  fair 
comparison." 

Xo  more  did  Xancy.  But  everyone  feels  bound  to  stand  by 
his  analogy.  "  I  think  it  very  fair — for  a  comparison — "  said 
she.  She  added  with  immovable  gravity : — "  Comparisons  won't 
always  wash.     But  they  do  to  talk  with." 

A  face  less  bent  on  its  thought  than  Lucy's  might  have  relaxed 
into  a  smile  at  Xancy's  comment,  or  at  least  heeded  it.  Lucy 
passed  it  by !  "  It  is  not  a  fair  comparison,"  said  she,  "  because 
the  sugar  has  no  choice.  Is  a  woman  not  to  have  any  voice  in 
the  matter?  " 

Xancy  then  made  an  observation  which  some  may  think  went 
to  the  root  of  the  subject.  You  can't  expect,"  said  she,  in- 
exorably, "  to  eat  your  cake  and  have  it  too."  It  certainly 
showed  that  thought  had  passed  through  her  mind  which  had 
not  found  its  way  to  words. 

That  might  easily  have  been  her  friend's  case  too,  to  judge  by 
her  heightened  colour  and  the  way  her  articulation  caught  her 
breath.  "  I  suppose  he  must  go — he  must  go — he  must  go !  " 
said  she,  in  hurried  scraps  of  speech.  "  But  I  wish  he  could 
have  thought  of  me.     If  he  had  known  what  he  was  to  my  life !  " 

Xancy  looked  hard  at  her,  as  if  she  would  have  seen  through 
her,  literally.  "  I  wonder  if  you  know  what  you  seem  to  mean," 
said  she. 

"  What  do  I  seem  to  mean  ?  "  She  asked  anxiously,  as  though 
her  friend's  answer  might  reveal  her  to  herself — help  her  to 
know  her  own  mind. 

"  Perhaps  you  don't." 

"  But  what  was  it  you  thought  ?  " 

"  That  you  fancied  you  could  keep  up  to  the  scratch,  and  yet 
have  as  much  as  vou  wanted  of  .  .  ."  This  was  sailing  too 
near  the  wind,  and  Xancy  shied  off,  to  avail  herself  of  metaphor. 
"  It  was  nonsense !  "  said  she.  "  You  can't  have  another  little 
boy  to  play  with."  She  added  a  postscript,  after  reflection : — 
"  Unless  you  want  to  drive  him  raving  mad ! "  She  got  sud- 
denly back  from  the  land  of  metaphor.  "  And  your  husband  too, 
for  that  matter!     And  yourself — in  the  end." 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  443 

Not  so  very  unlikely,  if  words  are  guides  to  feeling — words 
cut  short  by  a  shortened  breath !  Lucy's,  so  spoken,  were: — "  Is 
it  my  fault — my  fault — that  men  are  like  that  ?  " 

"  Shall  I  tell  you  what  you  are?  " 

"  You  think  lama  fool  ?  " 

"  Well— I  do.  And  I  think  Fred  Carteret's  got  a  fit  of  not 
being  a  fool,  for  once.  He's  quite  right  to  run  away.  /  should 
if  I  were  in  his  shoes." 

Lucy  flashed  back : — ''  Then  what  right  has  he  to  write  me  a 
letter  like  this,  to  say  why  he's  going?  Does  he  want  to  drive 
me  mad  ?  "  And  so  they  talked  on,  Nancy  always  feeling  very 
much  out  of  her  depth,  and  a  trespasser  in  strange  waters,  even 
though  she  went  no  more  than  ankle-deep.  She  was  conscious 
of  an  intention  not  to  tell  her  sister  a  word  of  this  conversation. 
The  story  wonders,  apropos  of  Lucy  Snaith's  vague  state  of  mind 
about  Fred  Carteret,  what  was  the  sequel  of  that  curious  inter- 
view already  referred  to  for  which  the  reader  of  poetry  is  in- 
debted to  Mrs.  Browning.  The  lady  ends,  you  will  remember, 
by  inviting  the  gentleman  to  dinner  with  herself  and  a  pre- 
sumably very  young  daughter,  the  only  chaperone  indicated,  who 
must  have  been  still  liable  to  be  sent  to  bed  early.  Perhaps, 
however,  the  gentleman  went  home  to  roost  betimes ;  or,  for  that 
matter,  the  lady  was  expecting  a  maiden  aunt.  All  the  story 
knows  is,  that  it  does  not  envy  the  gentleman,  and  considers  that 
the  lady,  though  she  was  able  to  strangle  his  soul  with  a  lock  of 
her  yellow  hair,  was  not  at  all  fair  to  him,  but  the  reverse. 
Anyhow,  it  is  very  sorry  for  him,  as  it  is  for  Fred  Carteret. 


CHAPTER  XXIX 

That  evening  at  The  Cedars  had  a  penitential  cast,  having 
been  kept  open  for  Fred,  who  never  appeared.  Lucy  naturally 
did  not  say  a  word  of  the  letter  she  had  received  from  him, 
though  she  might  easily  have  reduced  it,  for  working  purposes, 
to  a  mere  line  on  a  card  to  say  don't  expect  him,  reported  and 
perhaps  looked  for  in  an  insincere  pocket.  She  was  wisest  on 
the  whole  to  make  no  such  excursion  into  fiction,  merely  saying 
to  her  husband,  when  he  reappeared  somewhat  late  in  the  eve- 
ning:— "  I  see  he  hasn't  come,"  without  appearance. of  concern. 
Charley  felt  relieved,  for  he  had  anticipated  a  much  more  incon- 
solable attitude. 

''  He'll  come  to-morrow,  darling,"  said  he.  "  If  only  those 
beastly  nice  persons  were  not  coming,  we  could  have  had  a  jolly 
evening  for  a  send-off.     What  is  their  respectable  name?  " 

"  The  Akerses.  Porley  Akers.  We  must  be  civil  to  them, 
because  they've  taken  The  Eefuge — that  big  house  at  Esher — and 
besides,  she  was  a  Miss  Payne,  whose  mother  knew  us  at  home, 
I  believe.     We  shall  have  to  endure  them." 

"  All  right !  "  said  Charley,  cheerfully.  "  I'll  deflect  them  off 
you,  and  you  shall  have  him  all  to  yourself,  all  the  evening. 
You  see,  he  got  a  letter  from  a  machinery  bloke,  fixing  this 
evening  to  talk  to  him  about  the  great  invention — the  Anti- 
Yibration  Engine.    He  couldn't  put  him  off.    It  was  impossible." 

"  Oh — that  was  it,  was  it  ?  I  thought  it  was  his  mother, 
somehow." 

"  So  it  is.  Mrs.  Carteret  has  consented  to  go  to  Paris,  to  meet 
an  old  friend,  and  she  and  her  husband  have  to  catch  a  boat, 
and   ..."     And  a  good  many  other  particulars. 

"  I  see,"  said  his  wife  when  they  began  to  flag.  "  They  have 
to  catch  a  boat.  That's  very  pressing.  Nancy  Eraser  told  me 
some  of  this.  .  .  .  Yes — Elbows,  if  vou  choose.  She  came  to 
lunch." 

"  Oh — then  I  expect  you  know  as  much  as  I  do."  He  went 
away  to  get  ready  for  dinner  without  having  received  from  her 
manner  any  impression  of  anything  unusual  or  sinister  afoot. 

Is  it  usual  for  young  husbands  to  impute  two  distinct  per- 
sonalities to  their  wives  after  a  couple  of  years'  experience?  If 
so,  Charles  Snaith's  estimate  of  his  was  only  developing  on  the 

444 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE   ^  445 

line  of  least  resistance,  when  he  recognised,  as  he  had  done  for 
some  months,  a  distinct  duplex  identity  in  Lucy,  a  sort  of  fem- 
inine version  of  ^Ir.  Hyde  and  Dr.  Jekyll.  For  the  former  he 
had,  so  far,  only  admitted  to  himself  a  disposition  in  her  which 
she  had  in  common  with  that  Mary  whose  garden  was  known  to 
a  contemporary  poet,  as  containing  silver  bells  and  cockleshells 
and  cowslips  all  in  a  row.  He  would  say  to  himself  that  Luce 
had  a  fit  of  contrariness  on  her  to-day,  but  it  would  soon  pass 
off — a  thing  which  the  poet  seems  to  imply  was  never  the  case 
with  Mary.  Her  other  identity  was  revealed  to  him  as  her  true 
and  better  self,  which  always  underlay  a  contrariety  which — 
though  ingrained  in  her  prototype — was  factitious  in  her,  and 
even  in  a  sense  assumed  as  a  sort  of  discipline — a  utilisation  of 
Mr.  Hyde  that  Dr.  Jekyll  should  not  make  himself  too  cheap. 
He  considered  that  this  individuality  was  best  described  by  the 
word  propitious. 

Never  had  the  young  lady  been  more  propitious  to  him  than 
on  this  particular  evening,  and  it  was  to  Charley  another  evi- 
dence— though  none  was  wanted — of  the  singular  beauty  and 
purity  of  her  character  that  this  propitiousness  should  manifest 
itself  abnormally  under  the  disappointment  of  which  the  whole 
evening  was  conscious,  due  to  the  absence  of  Fred,  and  the  cer- 
tainty of  its  continuance.  However,  even  if  he  didn't  come  to- 
morrow, two  or  three  weeks  was  not  eternity.  Never  were  the 
soles  of  feet  more  unconscious  of  the  fires  below  than  Charley's, 
as  he  trod  this  furlong  of  his  path  in  life. 

"  Be  a  propitious  and  benevolent  angel,"  said  he,  as  she  took 
the  chair  in  the  smoking-room  Fred  usually  occupied,  '''  and  pass 
your  deserving  husband  the  matches."  She  not  only  complied, 
but  went  so  far  as  to  light  one  and  consign  it  to  him.  There 
was  a  great  contentment  on  his  face  as  he  lit  his  cigar,  and 
subsided  to  an  enjoyment  of  it  which  the  proximity  of  her  fingers 
had  enlianced. 

'•'  I  did  tell  you,  didn't  I,  that  I  had  a  visit  from  that  dear 
mad  bull?  "  Lucy  added,  in  case  this  should  be  unintelligible, — 
"  That  mad  bull  of  a  girl — Nancy  Fraser.  She  came  on  her 
bicycle." 

"  Oh  ah — Elbows  !     What  has  Elbows  got  to  say  for  herself?  " 

Lucy  smiled  down  from  a  pinnacle  on  a  memory  of  Nancy. 
"Such  a  funny  girl!"  she  said.  "I  can't  help  laughing  at 
her."  But  her  husband  couldn't  give  proper  attention  to  a 
chance  incident  of  the  conversation  like  Nancy,  as  his  Havana 
was  not  drawing  to  the  full  of  his  expectations.     Would  his 

29 


446  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

wife  be  more  propitious  still,  and  lend  him  a  hairpin?  She 
would,  although  its  withdrawal  involved  the  fall  of  a  released 
black  splendour  on  a  white  shoulder.  Charley  kissed  that  hair- 
pin in  acknowledgment,  with  the  comment : — "  A^ery  thin  kiss- 
ing !  "  as  a  hint  that  lips  would  be  not  unwelcome.  He  did  not 
get  them,  and  had  to  be  content  with  the  shoulder,  en  passant. 
But  he  perforated  the  Havana,  without  piercing  its  side,  which 
Ave  all  know  ends  any  cigar's  life.  Then  he  had  time  to  hark 
back  to  his  forsaken  question.  "  Let's  see — what  were  we  talk- 
ing about?  Oh  yes.  Elbows !  AMiat  did  Elbows  say  ?  "  But  he 
didn't  really  want  to  know,  as  his  eyes  were  at  rest  on  the  beau- 
tiful image  before  him.  All  his,  it  was!  AYhy  think  of  any- 
thing else? 

"  She  had  been  at  Mrs.  Carteret's,  yesterday.  So  I  heard  the 
whole  story  at  first-hand.  Mrs.  Carteret  wants  to  see  this  Elise 
Hofer,  whom  she  hasn't  seen  since  she  married  her  German. 
No  doubt  Fred  is  very  glad  to  get  her  away  on  any  terms.  He 
always  is  saying  how  bad  it  is  for  her  to  go  on  peaking  and 
pining  about  that  old  Doctor  .  .  .  Really  the  disappearance 
incident  is  getting  so  long  ago  that  it  will  soon  become  a  bore. 
These  things  have  got  to  be  forgotten,  sometime  or  other." 

Charley  "welcomed  this  as  a  sign  that  his  wife  was  getting 
the  better  of  her  leanings  towards  superstition,  and  applauded 
what  he  might  otherwise  have  protested  against  as  unfeeling. 
"  Quite  right  you  are  about  that !  "  said  he.  "  Don't  see  the  fun 
of  crying  over  spilled  milk !  Besides,  old  Stultifex — that's  what 
we  used  to  call  him;  Stultifex  Maximus,  after  the  place — old 
Stultifex  had  had  a  pretty  long  whack,  and  he  might  have  died 
lots  of  ways.  It  wasn't  like  a  young  man,  mind  you!  .  .  ." 
Then  he  repented  of  his  pessimistic  tone,  and  reinstated  opti- 
mism : — "  Only  don't  you  run  away  with  the  idea  that  I  believe 
he  won't  turn  up  again,  yet." 

"  If  he  does  it  will  be  very  .  .  .  interesting."  The  young 
lady  hid  the  beginning  of  a  yawn  behind  her  fingers. 

"  It's  all  very  fine  to  be  incredulous,"  said  Charley,  inter- 
preting her  manner  in  that  sense.  "  But  don't  you  see,  sweet- 
heart, you're  not  a  fair  judge.  You  stand  committed  to  believing 
the  old  boy  dead." 

"  Do  I  ?  " 

"To  be  sure  you  do.  You've  seen  his  ghost,  you  know.  A 
party  who  sees  a  party's  ghost  stands  committed  to  believing  him 
dead." 

"  I  wish  you  wouldn't  ..." 


i 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  447 

"Wouldn't  what?" 

"  Talk  in  that  way." 

"  Very  well  then,  I  won't.   .    .    .   What's  the  matter,  dearest  ?  " 

"  Nothing.  ,  .  .  No — really  nothing !  Only  you  talk  so 
uncomfortably.  Suppose  we  talk  of  something  else !  "  She  was 
really  looking  quite  upset. 

He  seized  on  another  topic  obediently,  the  first  that  came  to 
hand.  "  Suppose  we  do !  "  he  said.  "  Let's  talk  about  Hilda 
and  her  Perplexities.  We  haven't  done  Hilda  justice."  This  of 
course  was  the  play  they  had  seen  two  nights  ago.  It  was  not  a 
fortunate  subject,  the  young  person's  chief  perplexity  being  how 
to  combine  a  rigid  morality  with  a  disposition  towards  several 
male  characters  in  the  same  piece  after  interviews  short  enough 
to  allow  of  its  performance  between  half-past  eight  and  eleven. 
This  disposition  had  features  in  common  with  greed. 

"  Hateful  girl !  "  said  Lucy.  '^  But  she  was  too  improbable 
and   .    ,    .   and  altogether  too  inartistic  to  talk  about." 

"  Very  well  then,  we  won't,"  said  her  husband.  Exit  Hilda, 
to  Lucy's  satisfaction,  because  although  she  thought  of  her  own 
case — as  one  does — as  of  one  entirely  exceptional  and  not  the 
least  like  those  of  the  people  on  the  stage  and  in  the  newspapers, 
she  perceived  the  fatal  liability  of  the  latter  to  points  in  common 
with  it,  due  to  the  habit  of  authors  of  drawing  on  Nature  when 
their  own  invention  is  exhausted. 

Therefore,  according  to  Lucy,  Hilda  was  too  inartistic  to  talk 
about ;  but  the  evolution  of  another  topic  lay  with  her  husband, 
and  this  justified  silence  on  her  part,  relieved  by  the  use  of  a 
fan.  For  the  thunder-clouds  of  the  morning  had  put  off  active 
operations,  and  given  the  sultry  heat  an  extension  of  a  short 
lease,  such  as  caloric  has  to  be  content  with  in  a  normal  English 
summer.  So  she  fanned  half-closed  eyelids,  dropped  lazily  over 
eyes  that  took  no  interest  in  anything  in  sight,  and  wondered 
what  pleasure  men  could  find  in  horrible  cigars,  in  weather  like 
this. 

The  immediate  man  puffed  at  his,  pondering  with  animation 
over  the  problem  of  what  he  should  say  next.  He  had  been 
headed  off  two  topics,  but  he  knew  of  a  third,  one  that  he  had 
set  aside  in  his  mind  as  a  mystery  that  called  aloud  to  be  cleared 
Tip  at  the  next  opportunity.     Was  this  it? 

"  I  say,  Luce ! "  This  followed  a  silence,  quite  half  an  inch 
long,  measured  on  the  cigar. 

"  Yes.  You  must  make  haste,  because  I  want  to  get  to  bed. 
It's  late.   .    .    .   Wrhat  is  it  ?  "    She  yawned  illustratively. 


448  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

"  ]\rustn't  keep  you  out  of  bed.   ..." 

"  Nonsense  !     Go  on." 

"  It's  only  to  satisfy  my  curiosity." 

"Well— what  is  it?" 

"  V/hat  was  that  Irishman  talking  about — at  the  theatre?" 

She  was  not  prepared  to  be  asked  this  question,  and  her  want 
of  preparation  was  just  visible  in  her  manner  as  she  asked  in 
return : — "  What  Irishman  ?     When  ?  " 

It  was  an  injudicious  pretext.  Charles  recited  full  and  sub- 
stantial particulars,  ending  with  a  repetition  of  the  words  the 
gentleman  had  used,  in  an  enriched  brogue. 

Now,  if  Lucy  had  only  been  fully  alive  to  the  advantages  of 
speaking  the  truth,  and  nothing  but  the  truth,  she  would  have 
represented  to  Charles,  as  she  and  he  were  returning  from  tlie 
play,  how  that  her  anxiety  that  he  should  go  away  to  smoke  had 
been  occasioned  by  her  desire,  in  the  interests  of  veracity,  to 
reproach  Mr.  McMurrough  for  a  gross  and  unpardonable  breach 
of  faith  two  years  since,  when  he  utilised  for  his  newspaper  par- 
ticulars of  a  private  domestic  tragedy  communicated  to  him  in 
the  most  solemn  confidence.  She  might  have  done  any  amount 
of  penitence  for  her  own  indiscretion,  ascribing  it  to  a  misunder- 
standing on  her  part  of  the  solemnity  of  the  pledge  of  secrecy 
she  had  given  to  her  lover.  That  v\-ould  have  assoiled  her — 
after  two  years;  quite  a  little  eternity! — of  more  than  a  few 
words  of  easily  borne  blame.  But  she  stood  committed  to  du- 
plicity by  the  attitude  she  had  taken  up  since.  In  this  way  the 
most  harmless  little  fib  will  grow  and  grow,  and  become  an 
infliction  to  its  papa  or  mamma,  who  will  have  to  nour- 
ish and  protect  it  as  though  it  were  truly  the  apple  of  their 
eye.  However,  this  is  common  experience,  and  does  not  need 
telling. 

The  opportunity  was  gone  by  for  confession  and  what  would 
have  been  a  very  easy  penitence.  Lucy's  only  safety  lay  in  an 
enforced  effrontery,  every  moment  of  which  intensified  its  neces- 
sity. It  would  be  better  to  throw  herself  into  the  part  in  full — 
to  be  hanged  for  a  sheep  rather  than  a  lamb.  "  How  very  odd !  " 
said  she,  taking  care  to  feel  genuinely  puzzled.  "  What  cati  he 
have  meant  ?  "  She  had  better  have  let  it  go  at  that — left  Truth 
to  shift  for  herself,  relying  on  the  shyness  of  that  goddess  to 
keep  her  at  the  bottom  of  her  well;  and  her  husband's  unconcern 
to  keep  him  from  the  well-head,  and  his  paws  off  the  handle. 
But  she  must  needs  reinforce  her  position.  "  What  I  can't  make 
out,"  said  she,  "  is  your  hearing  it  and  me  not.     Are  you  quite 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  449 

sure  you  heard  right? — quite  sure  it  wasn't  something  somebody 
else  said  to  somebody  else  ?  " 

"  Quite  absolutely  certain.  Because  it  was  answering  you. 
I  know  your  voice  by  now,  ma'am !  "  There  was  a  lovingness 
in  his  look  and  manner  as  he  spoke  to  her  of  herself  that  was 
unwelcome  to  her.  She  did  .not  wish  to  have  her  duplicity 
rubbed  in. 

"  Indeed !  I  suppose  you  heard  what  I  said,  then."  How 
devoutly  she  hoped  he  hadn't ! 

But  ills  ears  had  been  offensively  sharp.  "  Well — I  did.  At 
least,  I  heard  the  two  last  words." 

"  Can  j-ou  recollect  them  ?     They  might  remind  me." 

"  Yes.  '  Not  forget.'  It  might  have  been  '  Mind  and  not 
forget.'  Or  anything  of  that  sort.  And  then  he  said  he  would 
pledge  himself,  and  would  bear  it  in  mind.  Wliat  was  it  he  was 
going  to   bear  in  mind  ?  " 

She  thought  it  better  to  do  a  good  deal  of  recollecting  before 
she  said  another  word.  It  looked  well  to  have'  the  solution  of 
this  mystery  at  heart — showed  that  she  had  nothing  to  fear  from 
its  publication.  After  prolonged  research  in  the  caverns  of 
memory,  she  was  in  a  position  to  turn  round,  look  her  husband 
full  in  the  face,  and  say : — '  No.  It's  very  funny ! — but  I  can't 
remem.ber  anything  at  all  about  it." 

It  is  a  perplexing  and  embarrassing  thing  to  be  told  a  down- 
right lie  by  a  perfect  stranger.  How  much  worse  when  it  comes 
from  lips  we  have  revered  as  the  very  source  of  truth  itself !  Of 
course  Charles's  decision  was  unhesitating.  He  had  made  a 
mistake.  Otherwise,  Lucy  would  have  been  speaking  untruly. 
^^^lich  was  impossible,  Q.E.D. 

"  Good-night !  "  This  only  waited  long  enough  for  the  full 
stop  after  her  disclaimer  of  memory  of  anything  at  all  about  it. 
"  I  shall  go  to  bed.  I'm  tired.  Now,  don't  you  sit  up  worrying 
over  that  nonsense.  If  you  are  going  to  worry  over  every  word 
that  comes  from  the  lips  of  an  Irish  newspaperman,  we  shall 
never  have  a  minute's  peace.  Get  me  my  candle  and  don't  sit 
up  smoking." 

"All  right.  I'll  only  finish  this  cigar."  He  got  the  candle 
and  was  rewarded  with  a  kiss  from  lips  fresh  from  a  falsehood. 
They  seemed  to  him  charged  Avith  the  soul  of  honest  benediction. 
So  may  have  those  of  Judas,  divine  insight  apart.  But  Charley- 
had  no  insight  at  all  on  this  score,  divine  or  otherwise. 

That  cigar  did  not  last  long,  but  it  was  long  enough  for  ques- 
tionings to  stir  in  his  mind,  when  freed  from  the  glamour  of  his 


450  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

wife's  presence.  It  was  all  very  fine — he  thought — to  have  for- 
gotten what  McMurrough  said.  Luc}^  liad  forgotten,  or  she 
wouldn't  have  said  she  had.  That  truth  was  rooted  in  the 
nature  of  things.  But  he  himself  had  a  perfectly  vivid  and 
distinct  memory  of  the  words;  all  the  more  so  for  the  speaker's 
accent,  developed  in  his  hearing  for  the  first  time.  But  for 
that,  the  mere  words  might  have  been — might  have  been — his 
imagination.  But  how  imagine  a  full-blown  Irish  brogue,  that 
had  lent  itself  to  exaggeration? 

He  remembered  distinctly.  The  speaker  plidged  himself  to 
something  he  would  kape  in  mind.  What  was  it?  Charles 
fidgeted  uneasily,  for  was  it  not  something  Lucy  had  just 
charged  that  Irishman  not  to  forget?  He  turned  angrily  on 
the  thought.  Had  she  not  just  disclaimed  all  recollection  of 
those  words  ?     Did  not  that  settle  the  matter  ? 

He  recalled  another  occasion  when  ...  No ! — not  when  a 
doubt  crossed  his  mind  at  all,  but  when  he  nipped  in  the  bud 
one  that  was  trying  it  on — a  doubt  that^  if  indulged,  might  have 
shaken  his  faith  in  his  wife's  veracity.  It  was  after  old  Moring 
had  said  that  an  acquaintance — surely  this  very  McMurrough — 
had  had  the  information  on  which  that  paragraph  was  based 
from  Dr.  Carteret's  family.  Or — and  this  was  the  disturbing 
point — from  a  friend  of  that  family.  'Wliy — what  other  friend 
of  that  family  was  there  who  knew  of  it  at  the  time,  except 
himself  ? 

The  solution  of  the  difficulty  would  have  been  easy,  if  a  little 
disappointing  and  unpleasant,  had  it  not  been  for  his  wife's 
denial  of  what  seemed  the  upshot  of  her  interview  with  McMur- 
rough. He  at  least  would  have  put  a  lenient  construction  on 
her  conduct  if  she  had  admitted  indiscretion,  partly  the  result 
of  her  underrating  the  necessity  for  silence.  She  had  only  to 
plead  that  she  had  had  no  idea  that  he  was  so  much  in  earnest. 
He  could  have  excused  her  to  Fred,  and  taken  the  blame  on  him- 
self. But  how  about  her  disclaimer  of  Mr.  Mc^Iurrough?  That 
could  only  be  accounted  for  by  a  sort  of  impossible  oblivion  on 
her  part  of  the  actual  facts.  Any  other  theory  was  nonsense 
that  imputed  falsehood  to  her.  And  what  other  theory  was  there 
that  did  not?  Oh  no — she  was  all  square!  Less  familiar  lan- 
guage would  have  said  blameless  or  immaculate. 

Anyhow,  it  was  his  clear  duty  to  brush  away  the  smallest 
stain  from  the  image  of  her  that  he  cherished  in  his  heart.  No 
suspicion  of  a  suspicion  of  her  was  to  be  tolerated.  How  could 
he  make  his  mind  quite  easy  on  this  score?     He  had  finished  his 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  451 

cigar,  but  he  could  not  go  to  bed  until  he  had  decided  on  the 
safest  course  to  take. 

Get  at  McMurrough,  of  course!  But  how?  To  call  on  him 
and  ask  him  questions  would  be  much  too  flamboyant  a  proceed- 
ing. But  why  not  ask  old  Moring  to  get  the  information  for 
him?  After  all,  he  was  much  more  likely  to  speak  freely  to 
Moring. 

There  was  an  escritoire  at  hand,  with  clean  note-paper,  sug- 
gestive and  tempting.  Charley  stood  at  the  desk  to  write  on  it, 
thereby  to  impress  upon  himself  the  incidental,  touch-and-go 
nature  of  the  transaction.  He  nearly  spilled  the  ink  to  carry 
this  out  effectually.  His  note  was  written  on  the  same  lines,  as 
thus : — "  Dear  Moring — If  you  chance  across  Mac  whatever  his 
name  was — you  know  the  man  I  mean — the  Irish  editor — try  to 
get  out  of  him  who  it  was  told  him  about  Dr.  Carteret's  disap- 
pearance two  years  since.  Let  it  alone  if  he  shuts  up  about  it. 
It  doesn't  really  matter  if  I  never  know,  but  I  have  a  fancy  to 
do  so."     And  its  writer  remained  sincerely  Mr.  Moring's. 

He  folded,  enveloped,  and  enclosed  it,  directing  it  to  his  recol- 
lection of  the  gentleman's  town  address ;  pocketed  it  and  stole 
away  upstairs,  slipperless  lest  half  a  creak  should  disturb  in- 
cipient night's  rests  near  at  hand;  and  utilised  the  fact  that  he 
had  written  it  as  an  anodyne  against  his  own  unrest,  the  natural 
outcome  of  that  interview  with  his  wife.  He  slept  soundly,  and 
in  the  morning  pooh-poohed  himself  for  having  written  it.  How- 
ever, he  put  it  in  a  side  pocket,  leaving  it  an  open  question 
whether  he  would  or  would  not  post  it. 

It  was  by  a  bare  chance  that  this  question  was  decided  in  the 
affirmative.  For  when  he  arrived  at  Waterloo,  having  two  other 
letters  "  to  post  as  soon  as  possible  " — a  special  instruction  from 
Lucy — he  failed  to  observe  the  difference  between  two  and  three; 
and  licked  a  third  stamp — Now,  everyone  who  has  tried  it  knows 
what  it  is  to  be  afflicted  by  a  licked  stamp.  He  has  to  stand 
beside  it  and  keep  curiosity  at  bay,  to  say  nothing  of  malignant 
interference  tending  to  double  its  licked  side  on  itself.  Charles, 
left  alone  with  the  fruits  of  his  rashness,  saw  nothing  for  it 
but  to  complete,  or  have  this  stamp  stick  to  the  inside  of  his 
pocket-book,  a  perpetual  monument  of  his  blunder.  Never 
mind ! — he  needn't  post  the  letter.  Besides,  there  was  always 
hot  water. 

But  nothing  equals  the  suggestive  powers  of  a  stamped  letter 
that  is  not  to  go,  nor  their  persistency.  It  is  the  appeal  of  the 
quintessence  of  the  most  perfect  helplessness,  to  power  within 


452  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

such  easy  reach  in  a  civilised  community !  He  wlio  stand?  at  the 
yawning  mouth  of  a  pillar  letter-box,  with  such  a  missive  in 
his  hand,  has  to  make  a  distinct  struggle  to  abstain  from  posting 
it.  He  will  probably  give  in,  unless  his  reason  is  convinced  of 
the  necessity  for  abstention.  In  this  case  Charles  was  under  no 
such  conviction;  indeed,  it  seemed  to  him  a  matter  of  indiffer- 
ence, except  in  so  far  as  that  it  might  save  Mr.  Moring  some 
trouble  if  he  left  the  letter  unposted.  But  then,  had  he  not 
written  it?  Yes — and  had  stuck  a  stamp  on  it.  In  short,  the 
letter  had  its  way,  and  may  have  chuckled  over  its  success,  if 
malicious.  For  it  was  not  a  matter  of  indifference,  whether  it 
was  posted  or  not. 

To  Fred,  that  day  was  miserable  enough.  It  would  have  been 
worse,  certainly,  if' the  need  for  activity  in  matters  relating  to 
his  departure  had  not  kept  him  constantly  on  the  alert.  But  it 
was  bad  enough  as  it  was. 

One  thing 'hung  on  his  mind  constantly — a  haunting  terror! 
He  had  still  to  see  his  friend  for  the  last  time.  He  had  to  say 
farewell  for  ever  to  that  old  Past  that  had  been  theirs  in  common 
—at  School,  at  the  'Varsity,  in  the  World;  to  speak  his  last  word 
to  the  other  half  of  that 'old  friendship  of  near  twenty  years. 
And  the  completeness  of  this  sundering — here  was  the  very 
worst  of  it ! — known  only  to  himself ;  his  friend  all  unsuspicious 
ignorance!  But  how  immeasurably  worse  that  Charley  should 
suspect !  That  would  indeed  be  the  crudest  sting  to  bear  of  all. 
But  what  earthly  good  could  come  of  his  enlightenment  ?  Noth- 
ing— it  could  oiily  make  three  lives  miserable  instead  of  two. 
Then  a  new  op])ression  was  upon  him.  Was  not  this  solicitude 
for  Charley  disloyalty  to  her?  His  heart  said  yes  it  was,  but 
turned  sick  and  recoiled  from  thought.  His  mind  crushed  out 
a  repetition  of  the  question,  and  then  was  silent.  For  how,  if 
he  let  this  influence  him,  could  he  account  to  his  mother  for 
the  change  of  purpose  it  was  sure  to  produce?  She  was  actually 
preparing  to  leave  early  to-morrow,  urged  by  him  to  do  so. 

Therefore,  through  all  that  morning  and  most  of  that  after- 
noon Fred  lived  in  a  turmoil  of  self-reproach  and  conflicting 
emotions,  intersected  by  the  activities  of  the  position.  He  had 
to  wind  up  episodes,  and  go  to  shops.  A  man  is  more  wedded 
to  his  shops  than  a  woman.  He  does  not  expect,  blindly,  to  be 
able  to  buy  all  he  wants  in  Paris.  His  mind  misgives  him  about 
such  things  as  shirts  and  collars,  for  instance.  So  a  journey 
to  Holborn  swallowed  up  the  morning,  for  Fred.  And  a  council 
of  war  about  the  Anti-Vibration  Engine  with  Mr.  Strongithai'm 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  453 

— who  was  in  earnest  about  it — and  some  opulent  friends,  at  an 
otBce  in  Queen  Victoria  Street,  accounted  for  most  of  the  after- 
noon. A  small  remainder  was  absorbed  by  a  visit  to  a  patent- 
agent  to  talk  over  the  advantages  of  a  world-wide  patent,  to 
secure  profits  on  non-vibration  throughout  Europe,  Asia,  Africa, 
and  America.  Then  Fred  said  to  himself — was  he  to  be  content 
with  the  meagre  provisional  farewell  he  had  said  to  Charley  the 
day  before,  or  go  back  to  the  diggings,  where  he  knew  his 
friend  would  call  in  the  hope  of  bearing  him  away  to  The 
Cedars?  Far  better  than  either  to  grasp  his  nettle.  It  would 
make  his  refusal  to  go  there  infinitely  easier  if  he  looked  in 
at  Trymer's  to  record  it. 

Trymer's  was  close  at  hand,  too.  A  young  man,  in  a  railed- 
off  office,  asked  an  elastic  tube  if  Mr.  Snaith  was  disengaged, 
and  interpreted  a  gurgle  in  its  intestines  as  an  affirmative. 
Would  Mr.  Carteret  step  upstairs?  He  would,  and  did. 
Charley  met  him  at  the  door  of  his  particular  room.  '"'  That's 
a  good  boy,"  said  he.  "  Come  to  say  he's  ready  for  his  dinner 
— or  will  be." 

Fred  stood  still  shaking  liis  head,  instead  of  entering  the  room. 
"  No  go,  old  chap !  "  said  he.     "  Must  go  to  the  mother !  " 

•Charley  stood  looking  at  him  with  a  falling  face.  "  I  sup- 
pose what  must  be  must,"  said  he.     "  But  come  in  and  explain." 

Fred  did  so.  The  substance  of  the  explanation  was  that 
although  it  would  be  theoretically  possible  for  him  to  come  to 
dinner,  stay  the  night,  and  join  his  mother  next  day  at  Charing 
Cross  Station,  the  scheme  scarcely  came  within  the  bounds  of 
practice.  Even  supposing  he  forsook  his  mother  and  left  her  to 
shift  for  herself,  he  would  have  to  be  up  almost  prehistorically 
early  in  the  morning  to  catch  the  tidal  train.  ]\Ioreover,  goods 
ordered  that  day  would  not  arrive  in  time  for  packing — for  that 
would  have  to  be  finished  in  the  next  two  hours — and  would  have 
to  be  forwarded. 

Always  stick  to  big  reasons  why.  If  you  let  in  a  little  one,  it 
will  be  snapped  at  by  the  Opposition,  and  treated  as  your  leading 
article.  Charley's  legal  instinct  seized  on  this  abject  little 
reason  about  the  goods,  and  flaunted  it  in  Fred's  face  as  though 
he  had  advanced  it  as  exhaustive.  ''  What  diabolical  rot !  "  said 
he.  "  As  if  I  couldn't  send  your  ready-mades  on  as  soon  as 
ever  I  know  your  hotel  ?  You  come  along  with  me  and  don't  be 
an  idiot." 

Fred  had  to  discard  his  feeble  little  argTiment.  "  I  daresay 
I  can  make  shift  about  the  ready-mades,  as  far  as  that  goes. 


454  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

But  my  mother  expects  me  to-morrow  morning  at  eight,  and  I 
mustn't  disappoint  her.     Go  I  must !  " 

Charley  could  not  but  acquiesce.  But  he  pulled  a  long  face 
over  it.  "  You're  quite  right,  old  chap  !  "  said  he.  "  I  see  that. 
All  the  same  I  shall  catch  it  hot  for  not  bringing  you  back  to- 
night." He  broke  into  a  good-humoured  laugh  as  he  added : — 
"  You've  no  idea,  young  feller,  how  popular  you  are  in  some 
quarters.     You  ought  to  feel  flattered." 

The  excruciation  to  Fred  of  Charles's  unconsciousness  was  like 
a  knife  edge.  He  was  quite  at  a  loss  for  the  sort  of  mock- 
affectionate,  anything-but-serious  speech  that  he  would  have 
been  so  ready  with  had  his  friend's  insight  into  their  relativi- 
tives  been  truer.  What  so  natural  as  a  quasi-loving  message, 
the  more  exaggerated  the  better,  to  the  wife  of  a  friend  who 
had  been  more  than  a  brother  to  him  for  so  long,  under  existing 
circumstances?  What  so  difficult  as  to  utter  it  to  the  unruffled 
unsuspicion  of  the  serene  face  before  him  ?  His  "  How  do 
you  know  how  flattered  I  don't  feel,  old  man  ?  "  was  as  good  a 
performance  as  could  have  been  expected,  all  things  considered. 
Fred's  continuation : — "  Good  job  I'm  not  going  away  for  thirty- 
thousand  years  !  "  met  the  case  without  overtaxing  his  conscience. 
Hyperbole  is  often  a  great  lubricant  to  embarrassment. 

"  When  do  you  expect  you  ivUJ  be  back?  "  Charley  asked,  com- 
ing down  to  the  practical  tone  of  everyday  life.  "  Fortnight  or 
three  weeks,  I  suppose  ?  " 

"  Thereabouts.     But  a  good  deal  depends  on  my  mother.     She 
may  like  to  stop  on.     I  fully  expect  she'll  appreciate  new  sur- 
roundings, when  she  gets  them.     Take  her  out  of  the  way  of 
thinking  of  ...  of  it,  don't  vou  know  ?  " 
■    "  I  know." 

"  She  frets  fearfully  still,  and  will  always  do  so  wherever  she 
is.     But  change  of  scene  will  certainly  keep  it  at  a  minimum." 

"  I  quite  agree  with  vou." 

"  Apart  from  that,  and  in  the  natural  order  of  things,  I  don't 
suppose  I  shall  be  away  more  than  the  inside  of  three  weeks." 
He  felt  quite  a  full-blown  liar  as  he  said  these  words. 

"  Very  well !  "  Charles  said.  "  Three  weeks  nominally.  But 
good  Lord ! — as  if  I  didn't  know  my  fellow-creatures !  Once 
they  get  abroad,  they  are  in  no  such  a  mighty  hurry  to  come 
back.'' 

This  seemed  to  imply  that  the  speaker  recognised  British 
islanders  alone  as  his  fellow-creatures.  "  Suppose  we  make  the 
three  weeks  six  ?    Just  to  be  on  the  safe  side,  you  knov,^ !  " 


> 

I 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  455 

Fred  felt  a  worse  liar  still  as  he  pooh-poohed  this  limitation. 
"  Six  be  blowed !  "  said  he.  "  I  oughtn't  to  reckon  on  three. 
Why — what's  to  become  of  business?  JN'o — ^}'ou'll  see  me  back 
here,  like  a  bad  shilling,  before  a  month's  out,  certainly.  Even 
if  my  mother  took  to  it,  and  decided  to  find  an  anchorage  abroad 
for  a  time,  I  should  have  to  come  back  and  make  arrangements." 
This  circumstantial  effrontery  was  a  climax  in  lying.  Fred  felt 
that  he  was  acquiring  skill  in  the  Art. 

We  all  know  the  last  moments  of  a  parting  interview — how  we 
feel  it  an  imperative  duty  to  make  the  most  of  them,  and  how 
often  we  spoil  them  outright  by  the  strenuousness  of  our  efforts. 
We  know  how  we  get  our  last  farewells  said  too  soon,  and  leave 
an  awkward  blank  we  cannot  find  a  use  for.  Then  it  is 
that  an  inexorable  train  that  will  not  wait  becomes  as  it 
were  a  finger  of  Providence  pointing  to  the  door  of  our  de- 
parture. 

But  this  is  when  we  are  cocksure  of  our  return.  How  many 
of  us  ever  have  to  undergo  a  bona-fide  parting,  under  a  guar- 
antee that  we  shall  never  meet  again?  Even  Death  itself  is  no 
security  for  that.  On  this  occasion,  for  one  of  the  men  con- 
cerned, a  cruel  knowledge  made  their  severance  as  good  as 
Death;  and  he  clung  honestly  to  every  moment  that  was  left, 
always  conscious  that  the  next  one  might  be  the  last.  But  the 
other,  serene  in  his  security  that  the  six  weeks,  blowed  or  other- 
wise, would  cover  his  friend's  absence,  perhaps  twice  over,  was 
so  far  from  wishing  to  prolong  the  interview,  that  he  saw  nothing 
to  be  gained  by  doing  so,  and  looked  at  his  watch.  After  all, 
there  was  a  train  he  mustn't  lose;  and  this  train  was,  to  Fred, 
much  like  the  thumb  of  Providence,  turned  downwards  as  in- 
exorably as  a  Eoman  thumb  to  condemn  a  gladiator.  Charley 
got  up  to  go. 

"Well!"  said  he,  "I  must  hook  it.  Good-bye,  old  chap! 
Pleasant  journey!  Come  back  robust,  please!  Another  man, 
as  the  saying  is.  I  shall  tell  Lucy  she  may  look  out  for  you  in 
about  three  weeks'  time." 

"  I'm  looking  all  right,"  said  Fred,  with  misgivings  that  his 
looks  were  betraying  him.  "At  least,  I'm  feeling  all  right. 
Missed  my  tea — s'pose  it's  that !  .  .  .  Yes — expect  me  in  about 
three  weeks.  .  .  .  \^liat?  Yes — you  must  say  adieu  to  the 
missus  for  me.  Make  out  the  best  case  you  can  for  me."  Fred 
was  up  to  his  neck  in  falsehood  by  now. 

"  All  right !  Love  and  a  kiss,  and  you  won't  do  so  any  more. 
I  know.     Xow  I  must  catch  mv  train.     Good-bve !  " 


456  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

"  Good-bye !  "  Fred  had  winced  so  over  the  items  of  his 
embassy,  as  recited,  that  he  had  managed  only  an  uneasy: — 
"  That  sort  of  thing !  You  know !  "  in  response.  Wliy — 
think  of  it!     Suppose  Charley  had  known! 

He  accompanied  him  down  the  prison-stair  and  saw  him  into 
his  cab,  that  awaited  him — for  there  were  still  hansoms  in  those 
days — and  stood  beside  it  with  his  eyes  fixed  for  the  last  time 
on  his  friend,  his  mind  half  wandering  back  through  their 
twenty  years  of  friendship.  In  that  short  span  of  time,  no 
longer  than  the  driver  needed  to  fold  the  Pink  'Un  he  was 
reading  and  consign  it  to  a  side-pocket,  it  had  hovered  through 
a  mist  of  early  schooldays, — all  memories  fairly  clear  there — a 
less  transparent  one  of  their  University  life,  and  a  very  cursory 
acknowledgment  of  the  London  days  that  followed.  Until  a 
something  came  into  the  dream  that  made  havoc  of  all  other 
memories,  and  left  him  in  the  bare  cold  day,  to  struggle  with 
its  crude  realities.  A  flash  of  two  dark  eyes,  burning  into  his 
soul  under  lash  and  lid  that  drooped  as  though  to  spare  him 
the  full  strength  of  their  dominion;  a  flood  of  warm  dark  hair, 
rich  in  its  power  to  bind  and  hold  a  human  heart,  every  lock 
a  fetter;  a  hand  whose  palm  was  surely  vitality  itself.  He  strove 
against  that  something,  and  for  the  moment  was  himself,  parting 
from  his  friend,  whatever  slavery  his  memories  might  entangle 
him  in  as  soon  as  he  was  left  alone. 

''  It's  good-bye  then,  for  three  weeks  or  so,"  says  Charley  as 
a  wind-up. 

"  That's  about  it,"  is  Fred's  mechanical  reply.  He  can  think 
of  so  little  to  say,  that  he  welcomes  any  crude  and  obvious  thing 
that  comes  to  hand.  "  I'll  write  from  Paris.  But  don't  expect 
to  hear  before  Tuesday."  Something  is  strange  in  his  own  voice 
as  he  himself  hears  it. 

Something  in  his  appearance  too,  to  the  occupant  of  the  cab. 
For  the  latter  is  not  content  to  part  without  comment  upon  it. 

I  say,  young  man,"  he  says,  "  I'll  thank  you  to  come  back  look- 
ing better  in  three  weeks  than  you  look  now.  However, 
bye-bye !  " 

"Do  I  look  queer?"  savs  Fred,  with  a  creditable  laugh. 
*' Shouldn't  know  it  by  the  "feel!  But  good-bye!"  The  two 
right  hands  m.eet  again  for  a  final  shake,  over  the  closed  cab-lid. 
The  cab  hints  collectively,  at  the  instigation  of  the  driver,  that 
it  is  time  to  be  off,  but  the  hand  outside  seems  loth  to  release 
the  other.  It  only  does  so  when  a  stern  peremptory  question: — 
"Waterloo,  did  you  say,  or  Charing  Cross?"  comes  from  the 


a 


i 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  457 

sky,  and  suggests  that  this  is  a  much-tried  cabman — his  temper 
shortened  by  unreasonable  fares. 

Fred  went  slowly  up  the  prison-stairway,  and  back  to  his  room. 
The  way  he  collapsed  on  his  sofa  and  remained  idle  and  motion- 
less, watching  the  sunlight  on  the  buildings  opposite,  that  was 
doing  more  for  them  at  the  end  of  a  summer  day  than  their 
architect's  imagination  had  bequeathed  to  them,  was  not  due  to 
fatigue,  but  to  a  sort  of  despair.  He  had  parted  with  his  old 
friend  for  good,  as  far  as  all  but  a  correspondence,  always  in 
disguise,  could  fix  its  date.  There  would  be  an  interregnum  of 
letter  writing,  of  course,  but  time  wovdd  see  it  die  down,  like 
other  things  human.  Then  Charley  would  no  longer  be,  at  all, 
for  him. 

Yet  there  was  no  other  way,  and  he  had  done  right. 

But  was  it  conceivable  that  he  should  ever  see  Charley  again? 
He  could  imagine  a  possibility  of  such  a  thing,  in  his  present 
despairing  mood,  which  shrank  from  no  calamitous  anticipation; 
seeing  that  all  was  calamity,  for  him,  in  his  own  future.  Sup- 
pose that  Lucy  were  to  die — how  then? 

He  pictured  himself  on  his  way  from  some  remote  corner  of 
the  world,  to  reclaim  and  reinstate  his  old  friendship,  whose 
surviving  links  would  by  that  time  have  dwindled  down  to  short 
perfunctory  four-page  letters.  Ho  could  forecast  the  gradual 
degringoJade  of  correspondence  with  Charley,  the  latter  holding 
on  courageously,  like  himself;  but  none  the  less,  dying  down 
year-by-year.  He  could  imagine  a  long  series  of  reports  of  the 
growth.  School  and  'Varsity  career,  and  finally  courtship  or 
courtships,  of  the  contents  of  that  cradle  at  The  Cedars.  His 
mind  took  kindly  to  the  interruption  of  this  young  man's  nup- 
tials with  an  American  millionheiress  of  startling  beauty,  by  his 
mother's  untimely  death.  But  it  foresaw  a  long  la})se  of  time^ 
even  then,  before  the  occurrence  of  an  event  it  dwelt  on  with  a 
sort  of  heartbroken  satisfaction,  concerning  two  old  men  who 
stood  by  a  grave  made  long  ago,  one  of  whom,  somehow  himself, 
told  the  other,  who  had  been  Charle}',  how  he  had  fled  for  both 
their  sakes  from  the  woman  whose  remains  it  held,  at  the  bid- 
ding of  a  passion  that  had  overmastered  his  reason.  But  his  ' 
mind  did  not  leave  the  stage  of  imagination  blank,  without  pro- 
viding a  sort  of  afterpiece,  with  fireworks,  of  recognition  of  his 
own  noble  self-sacrifice,  and  the  righteousness  of  the  resolute 
way  in  which  he  had  grappled  with  the  inevitable,  and  knocked 
it  out ! — or,  if  not  quite  that,  had  at  least  outgeneralled  Provi- 
dence, whose  Inscrutable  Ways  had  for  once  met  their  match. 


458  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

How  much  of  egotism  there  was  in  this  dreaming  may  be 
inferred  from  the  fact  that  the  graveyard  scene  in  the  drama 
was  a  real  solace  to  the  dreamer,  who  went  back  and  back  to  it. 
He  roused  himself  from  visionary  aimlessness  at  last,  to  meet 
the  need  for  leaving  his  house  in  order,  so  that  whoever  had  the 
task  of  shifting  his  belongings — to  dispose  of  them  somehow, 
not  settled  yet — might  find  it  an  easy  one.  He  had  not  much 
trouble  in  doing  this  as  far  as  his  professional  plant  was  con- 
cerned, for  chaotic  untidiness  was  not  among  his  failings. 
Some  people  are  Chaos  itself,  even  when  endowed  by  Heaven 
with  Genius.  He  had  no  difficulty  in  systematizing  the  volumi- 
nous drawings  of  the  great  Machine,  whose  patent  he  was  assign- 
ing to  Mr.  Strongitharm  and  a  syndicate  that  could  put  money 
down,  cornucopiousl}^,  if  plenty  more  was  coming.  But  things 
that  belong  nowhere,  that  evade  categories,  are  much  more  trouble 
than  bulky  things  that  fill  wardrobes  and  lend  themselves  to 
classification. 

Fred  had  half-an-hour  left  before  starting  with  his  travelling 
traps  for  Maida  Vale,  where  he  had  told  outfitters  to  send 
sundries  which  he  sanguinely  hoped  to  stuff  into  the  top  of  his 
box.  He  had  opened  every  drav/er,  looked  in  every  cupboard, 
felt  round  every  shelf  his  eyesight  could  not  be  even  with,  and 
was  just  about  to  summon  a  cab  when  a  locked  drawer,  un- 
examined for  insufficient  reasons,  forced  itself  on  his  notice, 
seeming  to  say : — "  I  contain  something.     Open  me  !  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Fred  aloud,  as  if  the  drawer  had  really  spoken. 
"  Of  course  you  do !  Now  what  the  dickens  am  I  to  do  with 
that?  Can't  sell  it.  Can't  give  it  away."  He  discovered  a  key 
on  a  bunch,  and  opened  the  drawer.  The  thing  in  question  was 
a  ring  in  a  casket — his  affiancing  present  to  Cintra  Fraser !  Of 
no  practical  use  now.  Not  to  be  given  awa}',  without  slighting 
Cintra.     Not  to  be  sold,  on  any  terms. 

The  little  casket  had  been  shelved  unopened  on  the  day  of  its 
arrival,  and  ignored  rather  than  forgotten  because  of  this  very 
unadaptability.  Now  Fred  felt  disposed  to  look  at  it,  as  a 
preliminary  to  a  decision  of  its  destiny.  Even  so  Mr.  Micawber 
decided  to  look  at  the  Medway.  Fred  slipped  off  a  rubber  ring 
that  alone  remained  of  the  casket's  enclosures,  pinched  it,  and 
the  lid  sprang  up.  Why  was  there  a  little  slip  of  paper,  folded, 
inside  the  lid?  With  writing  on  it  too!  Fred  oi^ened  it,  and 
read  :  "  With  thanks,  for  all  that !     Cit  Fraser." 

Fred  felt  that  he  changed  colour,  and  was  glad  that  there  was 
no  one  else  in  the  room  to  see.     But,  after  all,  what  did  it  matter. 


I 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  459 

that  five  words^  not  meant  for  an  answer,  should  have  lain  un- 
answered and  unnoticed  for  two  years,  forgotten  in  the  dark? 
If  he  had  opened  the  casket  then  and  there,  what  response  could 
he  have  made  ?     None. 

He  had  said  to  himself,  a  thousand  times  since  then,  that  it 
was  Cintra,  not  he,  that  had  put  an  end  to  their  engagement. 
But  he  was  always  this  much  unconvinced,  that  he  had  invariably 
found  himself,  shortly  after,  saying  it  again.  If  it  was  true,  why 
did  it  call  for  so  many  repetitions?  If  it  was  false,  what  good 
end  would  have  been  served  by  their  engagement  ending  in 
marriage?  That  the  result  of  that  insane  joint-household  scheme 
would  have  been  a  development  of  all  the  present  evils  in  a  worse 
form,  he  did  not  doubt.  But  where  was  the  guarantee  of  safety 
in  a  measured  and  limited  intercourse  between  the  two  couples? 
He  pictured  to  himself  an  unnatural  constraint  upon  his  inter- 
course with  Lucy,  an  excruciating  clash  between  the  blind  con- 
fidence of  dear  old  Charley,  that  would  have  made  them  brother 
and  sister  at  least,  and  the  v/arrantable  jealousy  of  a  wifehood 
that  would  have  demanded  undivided  love,  over  and  above  the 
mere  prosaic  fulfilment  of  a  husband's  duties  as  interpreted  by 
current  domesticity.  Cintra  would  have  wanted  his  whole  heart 
for  herself,  and  would  it  have  been  his  to  give  ?  It  may  be  that 
he  answered  this  question  too  emphatically  in  the  negative,  but 
what  right  would  he  have  had  to  run  risks? 

There  had  been  only  one  thing  till  now  that  he  blamed  himself 
for— that  he  had  not  seen  his  own  danger  and  fled  from  it  while 
he  still  believed  that  Lucy  would  not  guess  his  reason  for  doing 
so.  For,  before  that  crisis  of  last  Sunday  at  The  Cedars,  he 
could  at  least  have  persuaded  himself  that  she  was  ignorant  of 
the  cause  of  his  flight.  It  was  that  terrible  knowledge  each  had 
of  the  other's  mind  that  prevented  his  saying  to  himself — as  he 
would  now  have  been  so  glad  to  do— that  at  least  he  was  the 
.only  sufferer.  It  is  a  great  solace  to  mental  pain  that  some  of 
it  at  least  is  vicarious — that  one's  own  soul  alone  is  weighed 
down  by  what  would  else  be  a  burden  on  another's.  He  believed, 
or  thought  he  believed,  that  he  would  have  been  happier  had  he 
known  that  Lucy  was  indifferent  to  him.  Possibly  he  would 
have,  but  the  story  doubts  it.  It  does  not  doubt  that  this  acci- 
dent of  the  casket,  and  the  way  it  brought  back  all  the  incidents 
of  two  years  since,  added  a  new  sting  "to  his  self-reproach. 

What  if  Cintra  .  .  .  ?  He  began  a  question  to  himself,  and 
left  it  uncompleted.  He  was  not  the  person  to  word  that  ques- 
.tion.     A  mere  spectator  of  the  drama  might  have  done  so  easily 


4G0  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

— might  have  said  outright : — ''  Suppose  the  girl  loved  him  all 
along,  and  was  only  acting  against  her  own  heart  in  a  momen- 
tary stimulus  of  passionate  pride?"  Fred  could  ascribe  such 
a  thought  to  another,  and  could  suggest  a  shorter  version  of  its 
last  words — mere  jealousy !  He  half  repented  of  it  too,  for  what 
would  love  be  worth  that  was  incapable  of  mere  jealousy — the 
merest  of  the  mere? 

Of  course  Cintra  was  jealous,  and  with  reason.  But  would 
she  have  been  less  jealous,  with  more  reason?  For  she  surely 
would  have  had  more,  except  his  passion  for  his  friend's  wife 
had  perished  in  the  flames  of  the  altar  of  his  own  Hymen.  Not 
a  very  likely  thing,  as  he  saw  matters  now !  No — whatever  cause 
he  might  have  for  self-reproach,  one  thing  was  clear  as  daylight 
— that  Cintra  was  well  quit  of  him.  He  could  never  have  played 
the  part  of  a  good  husband  to  her.  Nor  to  any  woman,  if  his 
speech  to  himself,  which  ended  his  self-examination,  was  as  well 
founded  as  he  seemed  to  think  it. 

There  was  nothing  now  to  prevent  his  starting  for  Maida  Vale, 
except  this  embarrassing  ring.  He  did  not  fancy  leaving  it  to 
be  dealt  with  by  persons  whom  he  regarded  as  contemporary 
executors,  even  if  he  could  formulate  directions  for  its  disposal 
in  a  rough  sketch  of  a  last  Will  and  Testament,  to  leave  behind 
him.  Fie  would  gladly  have  given  it  away,  and  would  have 
presented  it  to  Mrs.  Gam,  who  occurred  at  this  juncture  to  see 
him  off,  and  take  provisional  charge  of  his  keys,  if  it  had  not 
been  so  abominably  valuable.  Not  that  its  value  influenced  him ; 
except  indeed  that  he  could  not  think  of  any  way  of  accounting 
for  such  profuse  liberality.  ]\irs.  Gam  would  probably  have 
summoned  a  specialist  in  mental  cases.  Besides,  this  evening 
she  had  an  unsettled  eye,  though  it  was  impossible  to  determine 
which  of  the  two  it  was.  Either,  being  closed,  would  have  left 
the  other  determinate  and  collected,  however  waggish.  More- 
over, she  had  with  her  an  unpleasing  child  of  doubtful  sex,  whose 
mission  seemed  to  be  to  keep  its  mouth  full  to  overflowing  of 
cake,  but  to  swallow  none.  Fred  decided  against  leaving  Mrs. 
Gam  in  a  position  of  any  responsibility.  He  preferred  to  leave 
his  rooms  virtually  under  the  guardianship  of  his  friend  Mr. 
Snaith,  who  would  communicate  the  date  of  his  return  to  Mrs. 
Gam,  as  soon  as  he  knew  it  himself,  to  the  end  that  she  should 
do  out  the  rooms  and  make  them  smell  of  soap  and  disinfectants, 
to  welcome  him  back  after  his  painful  experience  of  the  tainted  | 
atmosphere  of  a  Continent  whose  aversion  to  a  regular  good  clean 
out  is  well  known  to  all  true  Britons.     It  was  no  use,  Mrs.  Gam 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  461 

said,  her  pretending  that  she  ever  did  take^  or  could  take,  to 
the  nasty  ways  of  foreigners.  But  this  was  a  good  deal  due  to 
the  courage  and  truthfulness  of  her  disposition,  and  her  aversion 
to  false  pretence  of  any  sort.  She  had  never  been  able  to  abide 
them  and  their  ways,  nor  yet  anything  underhanded.  She 
claimed  probity  as  an  attribute  of  her  countrymen;  admitting, 
however,  that,  for  them  who  liked  change,  there  was  something 
to  be  said  for  intermittent  flights  among  the  Frenchified  popu- 
lations of  foreign  parts,  if  only  to  see  the  contrast,  and  become 
alive  to  our  insular  blessings.  Only,  all  she  said  was,  rather 
them  than  her ! 

"  Very  well  then,  Mrs.  Gam,"  said  Fred.  "  That's  under- 
stood. You're  not  to  be  compelled  to  visit  foreign  parts  against 
your  will,  but  I'm  to  go  away  for  a  change.  I  shall  be  back  in 
about  a  month's  time,  and  then  Mr.  Snaith  will  give  you  my 
key  and  turn  you  in  to  clean  and  tidy  to  your  heart's  content. 
I  shall  expect  to  find  the  place  as  fresh  as  the  top  of  the  Matter- 
horn." 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  Sir,"  said  Mrs.  Gam  with  dignity.  "  But 
which  place  was  it  you  said  ?  " 

"  The  top  of  the'  Matterhorn." 

Mrs.  Gam  drew  herself  up  to  her  full  height,  to  yield  nothing 
to  the  Matterhorn.  "  I  'ope  so,  I  am  sure !  "  said  she  with  a 
powerful  accent  on  the  absence  of  an  H  in  her  verb.  "  I  should 
^pe  to  give  every  satisfaction." 

"  Very  good  then,  that's  settled  !  Xow  let  me  into  Mr.  Snaith's 
room,  as  you  have  the  key,  and  call  me  a  cab.  I  want  to  leave 
a  note  on  his  table."     Mrs.  Gam  complied. 

There  was  Charley's  room,  in  the  last  glow  of  the  summer 
evening.  The  last  sight  of  it  Fred  would  ever  have,  miracle 
apart !  There  was  the  gate-legged  table,  all  corkscrew,  that  he 
had  given  his  friend,  years  ago,  that  his  room  might  not  look 
entirely  Philistine.  For  Charley,  left  to  himself,  was  Philistine, 
alas !  How  many  a  time  had  the  two  young  men  breakfasted 
at  that  table,  conveying  a  sort  of  intimation  to  Fate  each  time 
that  she  might  do  her  worst,  but  college  life  should  never  cease! 
What  was  it  that  had  come  between  them,  to  give  cruel  Fate 
a  helping  hand?     Wliat  was  she — rather? 

There  she  was,  on  the  walls,  on  the  table,  on  the  chimney 
shelf  beside  the  clock!  \A1iere  was  she  not,  so  far  as  her  image 
could  be  said  to  be  herself,  and  so  far  as  the  camera  could  be 
relied  on.  For  one  of  Charley's  great  delights  was  to  get  a  new 
photograph  of  his  wife,  and  a  copy  was  always  in  evidence  at 

30 


462  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

the  diggings,  framed  and  glazed  if  a  notable  success;  otherwise, 
at  hand  in  an  album  passe-partout.  He  had  copies,  too,  at  his 
place  of  business,  to  refer  to.  But  these  were  hidden  away  in 
drawers,  not  to  distract  his  attention  from  his  clients.  Here, 
whichever  way  he  turned  his  eyes,  he  saw  Lucy.  And  it  was  she 
that  was  driving  him  away  from  his  Past,  into  a  mist  that  he 
abhorred,  known  to  him  now  only  as  his  Future. 

If  he  could  have  waked  to  find  this  all  a  dream — a  long  dream, 
two  dream-years  long — how  he  would  have  rejoiced !  Where 
would  he  have  had  it  begin?  Clearly  enough,  just  before  his 
introduction  to  those  eyes  with  the  drooping  lids,  in  the  photo- 
graph on  the  table;  those  lips  that  parted  to  smile  dutifully  at 
the  camera,  on  the  chimuey-piece ;  that  form  its  enclosure  said 
so  much  about  to  the  hand  that  lay  upon  it,  a  tale  to  be  passed 
on  to  the  next  palm  it  pressed,  in  that  full  length  the  dying 
sunlight  caught;  near  the  window.  To  wake  up  now,  and  find 
that  all  these  things  had  been  unrealities,  what  joy  that  would 
be !  And  this  for  all  that  they  had  been  fraught,  for  him,  with 
the  sweetest  experience  possible  to  man !  For  such  a  waking 
would  not  drag  him  from  its  possible  fruition,  but  only  from  a 
worse  version  of  the  tortures  of  Tantalus. 

Yes — he  would  like  to  hark  back  in  time  that  much,  and  to 
meet  after  that  waking  the  new  fancce  of  his  friend,  and  find 
her  all  his  heart  could  wish  for  that  friend.  A  perfectly  de- 
lightful girl,  all  sweetness,  honour,  generosity.  And  beauty,  if 
you  will,  but  in  reason;  grace,  but  bearable  grace,  that  would 
not  drive  a  man  mad !  Charley  would  have  been  just  as  happy 
with  any  woman  his  heart  had  chosen,  as  with  the  one  chance 
had  brought  him.  What  had  he  to  gain,  so  long  as  she  was 
perfect  in  his  eyes,  by  a  dangerous  fascination  that  entangled 
others  in  the  meshes  of  their  own  passions,  a  mirage  that  led 
them  astray  in  a  desert  where  there  was  no  hope  of  an  oasis? 
Then,  who  could  say  that  his  own  fidelity  to  his  first  love  would 
not  have  remained  unshaken?  If  this  all  proved  a  dream,  and 
he  woke  now,  would  it  not  be  to  look  forward  to  his  next 
welcome  at  Gipsy  Hill,  a  whole-hearted  lover?  He  thought  now 
with  shame — a  shame  he  was  half  ashamed  of — of  his  earnest- 
ness about  Cintra  in  those  early  days,  and  with  a  pity  for  her 
that  he  silenced  as  insulting.  Cintra  was  no  child ;  a  woman  with 
a  will  of  her  own,  and  a  clear  insight  into  his  character,  her 
position — all  the  facts  of  the  case.  She  would  be  much  happier 
as  Mrs.  Lomax   .    .    .    and  so  on. 

Anyhow,  this  was  no  dream — that  was  certain!      His  hand 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  463 

closed  in  proof  on  the  corners  of  that  casket  in  his  pocket.  He 
"had  had  an  idea  of  leaving  it  on  Charley's  table  with  a  note, 
asking  him  to  take  charge  of  it  till  his  return,  so  as  to  make 
sure  it  should  fall  into  no  stranger's  hands.  But  on  reilection 
he  did  not  see  his  way  to  wording  an  explanation  of  it  and  his 
reasons,  offhand.  So  he  changed  his  mind  and  left  it  in  his 
pocket.  He  could  explain  it  to  his  mother,  and  leave  it  with  her 
jewellery,  which  would  go  in  the  plate-chest  to  the  Bank. 

What  then  ?  He  had  seen  Charley  for  the  last  time,  Lucy  for 
the  last  time — that  was  his  judgment  and  belief — and  now  he 
had  to  say  good-bye  outright  to  all  his  past.  For,  come  what 
might,  he  could  never  go  back  upon  it.     This  was  to  be  farewell. 

Mysterious  sounds  of  bumps,  and  of  a  hoarse  hireling  de- 
nouncing staircases,  showed  that  Mrs.  Gam  had  grappled  suc- 
cessfully with  the  situation,  and  was  helping  to  get  the  boxes 
on  the  cab.  There  was  only  just  room,  but  the  driver  was 
"  accommodatin',"  and  could  see  round  a  group  of  luggage 
"  you  wouldn't  have  thought  possible  to."  So,  after  yielding  to 
a  claim  for  overpayment  by  the  hireling  on  account  of  the 
peculiar  shape  of  that  staircase — which  was  exactly  like  any 
other  staircase — and  satisfying  Mrs.  Gam  beyond  her  deserts, 
Fred  was  off,  and  on  his  way  to  forget — to  attempt  it,  at  least — 
all  that  had  made  up  his  early  life.  His  heart  was  heavy  at  the 
thought,  but  his  eyes  were  closed  to  everything  but  the  need  for 
escape — escape  from  surroundings  that  made  for  self-torture. 
He  knew  that  changed  scenes  and  the  stir  of  new  life  about  him 
would  make  matters  better  than  this. 

He  had  no  chance  to  brood  over  the  situation,  as  most  of  his 
drive  to  Maida  Vale  was  needed  to  convince  the  cabman  that  he 
did  not  want  to  be  driven  to  any  railway  station  whatever,  the 
said  cabman  having  a  rooted  belief  that  it  was  impossible  that 
any  person  with  luggage  could  want  to  be  taken  anywhere  else. 
He  conceded  the  point,  however,  saying  resignedly : — "  'Axe  it 
your  own  way,  then.  Only  don't  go  orf  in  a  'uff  and  say  I  didn't 
arsk  you." 


CHAPTER  XXX 

That  letter  that  Charley  had  posted  to  Mr.  Moring  on  his 
way  to  town,  on  the  Friday  morning  that  occurs  in  the  last 
chapter,  produced  no  reply  at  the  time,  and  Charley  concluded 
that  it  must  have  miscarried.  As  he  had  hesitated  ahout  post- 
ing it,  he  did  not  take  its  disappearance  to  heart.  The  two 
things  together  had  bridged  over  that  inexplicable  incident  of 
the  Irishman  at  the  play,  by  giving  his  wakeful  inquisitiveness 
an  excuse  for  a  nap  in  the  first  place,  and  in  the  second  by 
postponing  indefinitely  the  hour  of  its  awakening. 

Indefinitely,  but  not  finally;  though  indeed  long  enough  for 
Charley  to  have  forgotten  nearly  all  about  it.  It  was  not  until 
August  gave  Themis  leave  to  knock  off  work  and  go  abroad  that 
he  was  reminded  of  the  incident  by  receiving  a  reply  to  his 
letter,  and  so  much  time  had  elapsed,  and  so  unconnected  with 
his  surroundings  at  the  moment  was  its  subject,  that  he  had  to 
undergo  some  reminiscence  before  he  could  understand  wdiy  the 
■dickens  Moring  was  writing  him  such  a  long  screed.  For  he 
looked  at  the  signature  before  he  read  the  missive. 

He  was  abroad  when  he  got  it — there  was  no  doubt  of  that ! 
For  no  such  aroma  of  coffee  ever  permeated  the  salon  of  a 
London  hotel  as  the  one  that  rose  from  the  black-and-white 
torrent  Jules  the  waiter  poured  into  the  thickest  possible  cup 
■on  the  wliitest  possible  table-linen  at  his  hotel  in  the  Avenue 
de  I'Opera,  while  he  examined  the  directions  of  his  forwarded 
letters  with  a  delicious  sense  that  hurry  and  business  were 
things  of  the  past,  and  breakfast  was  the  very  essence  of  leisure. 
At  no  London  hotel  would  a  cavalry  officer  with  a  scabbard  have 
finished  his  breakfast  half  a  cigar  ago,  and  that  cigar  such  a 
black  and  strong  one.  Nowhere  in  Piccadilly  or  Jermyn  Street, 
though  one  spent  a  week  searching  their  hostels,  could  one  find 
middle-aged  dames  of  such  a  diameter,  or  capable  of  such  an 
amazing  rapidity  of  speech  as  sundry  voluble  samples  that  flut- 
tered about,  like  very  solid  butterflies,  in  the  Hotel  de  I'Etoile — 
suppose  we  call  it? — in  those  days,  and  perhaps  do  so  still.  The 
story  hopes  so.  But  they  are  never  seen  in  these  islands.  Or 
is  it  that  they  shrivel  and  become  dumb,  because  of  Sunday, 
when  they  rashly  pay  them  a  visit  ? 

4C4 


1 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  465 

Charles  was  abroad  by  the  wish  of  his  wife,  who  adored  Paris 
— small  blame  to  her;  the  story  does  so  too — and  had  not  been 
there  since  their  honeymoon.  She  had  to  all  appearance  accepted 
his  version  of  Fred's  intention — to  come  back  in  a  month  at 
most — and  with  it  the  consolations  for  his  absence  that  her 
husband  was  not  backward  in  offering  to  her,  "  Cheer  up. 
sweetheart !  "  he  would  say  when  he  suspected  she  was  missing 
her  baritone.  "  He'll  be  back  by  the  time  we  are.  The  music 
will  keep,  and  be  all  the  better  for  keeping."  For  he  felt 
Fred's  absence  as  much  on  her  account  as  his  own. 

She  had,  however,  disclaimed  any  desire  to  overtake  Fred  and 
his  mother  in  Paris  when  she  expressed  a  wish  to  spend  a  week 
there  before  going  on  to  the  Dolomites,  which  had  seemed  good 
as  a  place  to  spend  an  autumn  holiday.  Her  motive  was  en- 
tirely love  of  Paris.  Nevertheless,  she  had  felt  a  strong  disposi- 
tion to  go  round  to  Fred's  hotel — very  near  at  hand — after  the 
table-d'hote,  to  find  if  he  and  his  mother  were  not  still  there. 
Therefore  after  dinner  she  and  Charley  had  turned  out  into 
the  electric  daylight  of  the  Avenue  de  I'Opera,  and  made  their 
way  to  an  hotel  whose  name  the  story  recollects  imperfectly,  but 
H6tel  de  I'Eternite  et  d'Espagne  will  do,  as  will  Rue  Champs 
des  Petits  Pois  for  the  street  it  stood  back  in.  It  was  a  scrap 
of  old  Paris,  whose  saUe-a-manger  had  once  been  a  coachhouse 
for  diligences;  from  whose  courtyard  they  had  adventured  out 
into  cobble-paved  streets  by  the  light  of  flambeaux.  But  lapse 
of  an  hour  or  so  may  part  us  from  anything  whatever  as  in- 
exorably as  a  century,  and  when  Charley  and  his  wife  reached 
the  Hotel  of  Spain  and  Eternity,  they  found  that  Fred  and  his 
mother  had  gone  away  that  morning,  and  were  not  quite  certain 
whether  they  should  stop  at  Basle  or  go  on  to  Italy.  So  they 
were  just  as  much  things  of  the  past,  at  that  hotel,  as  the 
vanished  diligences  of  a  hundred  years  ago. 

However,  this  was  on  the  evening  of  their  arrival,  and  it 
was  next  morning  at  breakfast  that  he  received  Moring's  letter; 
for  they  had  broken  their  journey  at  Rouen  for  a  couple  of  days, 
and  he  had  left  word  for  all  forwarding  to  be  to  his  Paris 
hotel,  as  above. 

"  Yes — Moring,"  said  Charles  to  his  wife  across  their  table. 
"What  can  he  have  to  fill  up  four  pages?" 

"  Why  don't  you  read  it  and  sec  ?  " 

"  Well — of  course  I  can  do  that.  Wait  a  minute  till  I've 
looked  through  these  others,  and  then  we'll  do  Moring."  He 
glanced  through  other  letters,  and  found  nothing  of  interest. 


466  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

Lucy  did  not  show  the  least  concern.  What  was  Mr.  Moring 
to  her?  A  dim  recollection  of  elderly  respectability,  with  good 
connections.    Nothing  more. 

She  was  recalled  to  a  more  vital  interest  in  him,  when  her 
husband,  having  begun  his  letter  this  time  in  earnest,  com- 
mented on  its  first  paragraph.  "  Of  course !  It's  that  Irish 
chap  I  wrote  to  him  about."  Then  he  went  on  reading,  like 
you  and  me  when  we  get  a  letter,  and  never  considered  the 
curiosity  his  words  might  have  aroused  in  his  hearer. 

Might  have,  but  apparently  had  not.  At  least,  his  wife  never 
showed  any,  but  went  on  reading  a  letter  she  herself  had  received 
by  the  same  post.  Certainly  she  said  : — "  Ye-es — what  does  he 
say  about  him  ?  "  But  it  was  in  a  drawling,  indifferent  way 
that  as  good  as  said : — "  This  is  merely  civility,  for  your  Irish 
chap  does  not  interest  me  in  the  least." 

Had  she  felt  any  curiosity,  Charley's  absorption  in  his  letter 
might  have  irritated  her.  For  he  not  only  read  to  the  end,  with 
a  deepened  gravity  and  a  bitten  lip,  but  turned  back  and  read 
it  through  a  second  time.  Then  instead  of  divulging  its  con- 
tents, as  might  have  been  expected,  he — so  to  speak — washed 
his  hands  of  it;  thrusting  it  first  into  its  envelope,  then  both 
abruptly  into  his  pocket. 

She  said  with  languid  enquiry,  through  the  continuous  reading 
of  her  own  letter : — "  Well — what's  the  mystery  ?  "  It  was 
rather  as  though  she  felt  a  remark  was  called  for  than  as  if 
slae  cared  for  an  answer. 

"  Oh — nothing — nothing !     What's   yours  ?  " 

"  Only  mamma.  Says  she  may  go  to  Harrogate.  Only  not 
unless  Adela  comes.  I  thought  she  and  Adela  were  at  dag- 
gers drawn."  A  certain  accent  on  Mrs.  Bannister  Stair's 
christened  name  showed  that  she  was  echoing  her  mother's 
reference  to  her — not  exactly  mockingly,  but  not  far  short 
of  it. 

"  Yes — I  remember  you  thought  they  had  been  fighting  that 
time  we  met  her  coming  out.  After  the  play  about  the  young 
woman.     What  have  they  got  to  fight  about  ?  " 

"  I  haven't  the  remotest  idea."  This  wasn't  true,  so  the 
speaker  ran  away  from  her  words  as  quickly  as  possible.  "  All 
plays  are  about  young  women,  but  I  know  the  one  you  mean. 
.  .  .  Now,  the  question  is,  what  are  we  going  to  do?  I  want 
to  go  to  the  Opera  Comique  this  evening,  so  wherever  we  go  we 
must  take  tickets  first." 

"  They'll   get  us   places   from  the  hotel.     If  they   can't  or 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  467 

won't,  we  can  get  themr  That's  all  right  enough.  But  where  do 
you  want  to  go  now  ?  " 

"  The  Beaux  Arts,  if  it's  open." 

"  Xot  sure  that  it  is.  However,  it  either  is  or  isn't.  We  can 
ask  at  the  bureau.  If  it  isn't,  what  I  should  like  would  be 
loafing — crossing  over  the  bridges — sitting  about  in  the 
Cham"ps-El3'Sees — fooling  about  the  Bois  de  Boulogne  in  a 
fee-arker.   ..." 

"  Don't  be  a  goose !  "Well — only  geese  pronounce  French 
wrong  on  purpose.  .  .  .  However,  I  don't  mind  going  about 
when  it's  fine.  It  may  rain  to-morrow."  So  it  was  settled,  and 
they  walked  as  far  as  the  Arc  de  Triomphe  and  then  took  a 
vehicle  which  Charley  obstinately  mispronounced,  and  drove  to 
the  Bois  de  Boulogne. 

The  Bois  de  Boulogne  was  very  like  itself  in  August,  and 
meant  to  be  too  hot  for  anything  by  midday.  There  was,  how- 
ever, still  time,  as  it  was  not  ten  o'clock  yet,  to  dismiss  the  mis- 
jH'onounced  vehicle  and  walk  about  for  an  hour  under  the  trees. 
This  course  recommended  itself,  as  a  sort  of  preliminary  to  a 
period  of  unlimited  leisure — Lincoln's  Inn  Fields  a  mere  tradi- 
tion of  a  half -forgotten  past,  remote  and  dim !  It  was  not  re- 
solved on  until  they  had  been  trundled  at  a  foot's  pace — the 
horse's  foot's — to  nearly  the  centre  of  the  Bois.  Thence  they 
could  easily  return  at  the  pace  of  other  feet — their  own — to  the 
gate  they  had  entered  by,  and  there  find  another  vehicle  to  get 
them  back  in  time  for  lunch  at  the  Etoile.  They  could  sit  on 
this  seat  till  it  was  time  to  start  back,  and  look  at  the  water. 

Charley,  thinking  in  such  French  as  came  to  hand — he  felt 
bound  in  honour  to  do  so — decided  that  Lucy  was  looking  ravis- 
sante.  He  had  never  considered  that  she  looked  ravishing,  in 
English.  It  was  much  too  heavy  an  expression.  The  French 
word  touched  her  identity  delicately.  He  sat  looking  at  her,  not 
at  the  water.  Then  he  lit  a  cigar  and  said  simply: — "Rip- 
ping !  "  as  an  expression  of  general  contentment.  It  might  have 
pleased  him  better  that  she  should  feel  a  more  active  interest 
in  him;  but  then,  did  he  not  know  that  his  nose  stood  in  his 
way  ?     He  felt  confident  that  he  could  live  down  that  nose. 

She  was  languidly  interested  in  Parisian  life.  "  It  is  the 
strangest  thing,"  she  said,  "  but  whenever  I  come  here  I  find 
identically  the  same  child  in  the  same  perambulator,  in  charge 
of  the  same  bonne,  with  the  same  little  elder  brother  and  sister. 
And  the  same  mamma,  if  it's  a  little  later  in  the  day.  I  sup- 
pose it's  toe  early  for  her  now." 


468  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

"  I  suppose  a  mossoo  in  Hyde  Park  thinks  he  sees  the  same 
kids  every  time." 

The  lady  did  not  seem  to  think  tliis  tonched  the  point  near 
enough  to  call  for  an  answer.  She  changed  the  subject  of  set 
purpose.     "  \Yhat  was  your  letter  this  morning?  "  said  she. 

"  Which  letter  ?  I  had  several."  He  shied  off  the  letter  from 
Moring,  all  the  while  longing  for  any  light  that  would  penetrate 
its  mystery.  For  it  had  brought  him  face  to  face  with  a  seeming- 
insoluble  problem. 

"  You  knov/  which.     The  one  from  that  man.     The  one  that 
made  you  look  so." 
"Look  how?" 

«  AYell—cross.  Irritated,  ^^^^at  was  that  in  Colonel  Quaqq 
— about  the  bull  ?  "  This  referred  to  the  story  of  the  Grace- 
walking  Brother,  which  probably  you  have  read.  They  had;  or 
rather,  Fred  had  read  it  aloud  to  them,  some  while  since. 

Charley  filled  out  the  quotation.  "Did  I  look  like  a  bob- 
tailed  billl  in  fly-time?"  said  he,  laughing  good-humouredly. 
"Well,  I  was  puzzled— that's  the  truth!"  But  it  madehim 
easier  that  she  should  be  persistent  about  that  letter.  It  pointed 
to  an  explanation  of  its  contents.  He  would  get  it  before  show- 
ing her  the  letter,  if  indeed  he  did  show  it  at  all.  "  You  know, 
I  had  written  to  him  to  ask  him  to  find  out,  if  he  could,  where 
that  Irish  editor  chap  had  got  the  story  of  Dr.  Carteret's,  dis- 
appearance." 

If  she  started,  and  changed  colour  slightly,  it  counted  for 
nothing;  he  could  explain  that  away  by  the  suddenness  of  his 
reference  to  the  gruesome  subject  they  had  left  behind  in  Eng- 
land. When  she  spoke,  it  was  without  any  apparent  conscious- 
ness of  personal  concern.  Her  "Was  he  able  to  tell  you  any- 
thing ?  "  was  a  perfect  model  of  the  interest  civility  calls  for 
when  the  affairs  of  others,  none  of  ours,  are  under  discussion. 

Charley  felt  hopeful  about  his  explanation.  "  Something," 
said  he,  allowing  the  disposal  of  a  long  cigar-ash  to  bespeak  his 
attention  for  a  moment.  "'  Stop  a  minute !  .  .  .  Yes — some- 
thing. .  .  .  That'll  do.  It  won't  show.  But  it  spoils  one's 
garments  if  it  gets  rubbed  in.  .  .  .  Yes— he  told  me  something 
—but  he  couldn't  find  out  what  I  wanted  to  know.  O'Dowd  or 
O'Toole  or  O'Eourke — whichever  he  is — wouldn't  give  up  his 
informant,  because  he  was  bound  to  secrecy.  But  he  stuck  to 
it  that  he  had  it  from  an  intimate  friend  of  the  family." 

There  was  distinct  relief  on  the  beautiful  face.  Mr.  McMur- 
Tough  was  to  be  trusted,  then!     She  could  safely  develop  her 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  469 

detachment  from  any  share  in  the  affair.  "He  must  have  had 
tlie  story  from  the  school  people,"  said  she.  "  He  might  easily 
describe  them  as  friends  of  the  family." 

"  It  lies,"  said  Charley,  "  between  the  school  people  and  our- 
selves.    So  it  must  be  the  school  people." 

'•'  Must  be.     There's  no  way  out  of  it." 

''  You  are  absolutely  certain  you  did  not  give  him  so  much 
as  half  a  hint?  " 

"  Stupid  man !  How  could  half  a  hint  have  supplied  him 
with  all  that  paragra})h  ?  " 

"  That's  true,  sweetheart.  Sharp  you  are !  "  He  was  by  tliis 
time  beginning  to  feel  ashamed  that  although  he  had  certainly 
not  entertained  a  suspicion,  he  should  have  gone  so  far  as  to 
answer  the  door  to  one.  He  could  make  up  for  that  though,  by 
taking  her  into  his  confidence  outright,  and  showing  her  the 
letter.  He  went  on  : — "  However,  you'll  see  what  he  says.  .  .  . 
Botheration ! — I  hope  I  haven't  lost  that  letter.  I'm  sure  I  put 
it  in  my  pocket.    ...    Oh  no — here  it  is  !     Catch  hold." 

They  had  risen  from  the  seat,  and  were  standing  by  the 
water's  edge.  A  light  breeze  had  sprung  up,  to  spoil  the 
reflection  of  the  swans,  though  indeed  they  seemed  to  think  it 
more  dignified  to  take  no  notice.  It  was  a  great  relief  to  the 
heat,  and  made  the  prospect  of  the  midday  sun  more  bearable. 
This  tended  to  a  leisurely  return  to  their  hotel.  They  need  not 
hurry  back. 

She  caught  hold,  and  read  through  the  letter.  What  she  read 
till  she  came  to  the  signature  was  what  her  husband  had  read. 
And  this  was  it : 

Dear  Snaith:  I  ought  to  have  answered  your  letter  before. 
But  I  had  to  wait  for  an  interview  with  the  Irishman,  and  I  did 
not  get  one  till  yesterday.  He  was  apologetic  for  his  paragraph 
— surprised  that  it  should  have  given  offence — had  imagined  he 
would  be  doing  a  service.  He  repeated  that  the  information 
came  to  him  through  an  intimate  friend  of  the  family,  but 
admitted  that  this  authority  was  not  his  immediate  informant. 
He  said  he  had  been  asked  since  then  not  to  mention  this  person's 
name,  so  I  did  not  press  him  for  it. 

My  experience  is  that  it  is  always  impossible  to  trace  stories 
of  this  sort  home  to  their  tellers.  Evervone  alwavs  savs  '  You 
will  be  sure  to  let  this  go  no  farther.'  And  one  always  repeats 
that  caution  very  earnestly  to  the  next  person  one  tells  it  to. 

I  must  say  that  McMurrough's  motive  seems  to  have  been 


470  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

honestly  to  assist  in  tracing  Dr.  Carteret.  He  could  have  had 
no  other.  I  think,  however,  I  should  in  his  place  have  consulted 
the  family  before  rushing  into  print. 

I  hope  that  you  and  Mrs.  Charles  Snaith  are  enjoying  your 
holiday.  My  very  kind  regards  to  both,  as  also  to  Fred  Carteret 
if  he  is  with  you,  which  I  take  to  be  not  at  all  unlikely. 

Sincerely  yours, 

Septimus  Munby  Moring. 

This  was  all  that  Charley  had  read.  But  his  wife  read  a  little 
more.  For  there  was  a  postscript  overleaf  that  he  had  missed. 
Xo  great  wonder ! — for  the  name,  as  above,  only  just  found  room 
at  the  end  of  the  third  neat  and  closely  written  page,  and  there 
was  no  T.O.  in  the  corner.  The  appearance  of  a  wind-up  was 
deceptive,  not  to  mention  the  fact  that  the  letter  had  been  folded 
backwards,  shutting  the  postscript  in.  He  had  missed  it,  but 
his  wife  caught  sight  of  it.     It  ran  thus : 

"  P.S.  Perhaps  I  ought  to  mention — though  I  am  not  quite 
sure  on  the  point — that  j\IeM.'s  informant  seems  to  have  been  a 
lady.  He  certainly  said  that  a  lady  he  met  at  the  Lyceum  in 
the  stalls,  had  begged  him  not  to  say  where  he  got  the  informa- 
tion. But  of  course  it  does  not  follow  from  this  that  she  herself 
had  told  him." 

"  "What's  that — postscript  I  didn't  read  ? "  said  Charles. 
"  Hand  over !  "  He  reached  out  for  it,  not  noticing  how  his 
wife  was  going  pale  and  red  by  turns. 

She  for  her  part  was  under  pressure  to  make  up  her  mind 
then  and  there  whether  it  wr.s  to  be  confession  or  further  con- 
cealment. Also,  whether  the  latter  was  practicable.  It  Avas  a 
very  doubtful  point. 

"\Miat  confession,  and  how  ?  To  say  pointblank : — "  I  am  a 
liar,  who  for  months  past  have  lied  black  white  over  a  matter 
I  might  have  told  the  truth  about  at  the  cost  of  a  very  mild 
rebuke  " — this  seemed  to  her  an  unqualified  impossibility.  On 
the  other  hand,  what  loophole  of  escape  did  further  duplicity 
offer  ?     None ! 

Yes !  Destroy — ^get  rid  of — this  horrible  letter  !  She  thought 
she  saw  a  chance.     Fortune  might  favour  the  bold,  this  once. 

"  You  must  make  this  out,  Charles ;  I  can't.  He  WTites  one 
of  those  dreadful  clear  writings,  that  one  thinks  one  can  read, 
and  finds  one  can't.   ...   Oh  dear — there  it  goes!     Catch  it." 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  471 

For  the  letter,  at  the  suggestion  of  a  new  gust  of  wind,  had 
taken  the  bit  in  its  teeth,  and  flown  away  across  the  water.  It 
may  have  been  relinquished  intentionally,  of  course ;  if  so.  Zephyr 
was  not  to  blame. 

"  Stop  it !  Wo — 0 — 0 !  "  said  Charley,  and  tried  to  reach  it 
across  the  water,  but  in  vain.  It  was  not  worth  going  in  over 
his  ankles  to  salvage  that  postscript.  If  it  had  been  the  least 
important,  Moring  would  have  been  sure  to  put  T.O.  in  the 
corner  of  his  last  page.  The  letter,  blown  by  the  wind,  was  well 
on  its  way  to  the  opposite  coast  in  a  very  short  time.  A  man  in 
a  suit  of  blue  canvas — no :  100,  if  the  badge  on  his  arm  told  the 
truth — who  was  sweeping  nothing  carefully  up  with  an  osier 
broom  whose  business  twigs  were  longer  than  its  handle,  stopped 
his  laborious  task  to  watch  the  departing  voyager.  "  Je  le 
retrouve  pour  Madame,  si  M'sieu  le  veut.  Un  franc  pour  le 
bateau,  et  un  pourboire.  C'est  peu !  "  But  it  seemed  to  be  con- 
sidered heaucouj),  especially  as  Monsieur  said  he  didn't  want  the 
letter. 

"  I  really  don't  think  we've  lost  anything,"  said  the  lady. 
"  The  envelope's  no  use  now,  is  it  ?  It  may  as  well  follow  the 
letter."  She  crushed  it  and  threw  it  after  its  late  occupant.  It 
was  a  mistake.  She  should  have  destroyed  it.  She  watched  it 
for  a  moment,  to  see  if  a  swan  who  had  thought  it  might  be 
eatable  would  have  the  courage  of  its  opinions :  then,  as  it  had 
not,  continued : — "  What's  the  time  ?     I'm  sorrv  I  was  so  .    .    . " 

"  So  butter-fingered  ?  "  Charles  laughed  good-humouredly, 
and  looked  at  his  watch.  "  Twenty  past  eleven — hookey ! 
I  say — we  ought  to  be  getting  back."  They  turned  to  go,  and 
wandered  easily  towards  the  gate,  Lucy's  face  showed  either 
relief  or  triumph,  or  both. 

jSTo  further  reference  was  made  to  the  lost  letter,  except  that 
Charles  said,  much  as  though  the  answer  was  a  foregone  conclu- 
sion : — "  I  suppose  you  didn't  make  out  a  word  of  the  post- 
script? " 

"  iSTot  a  word.  But  I  didn't  try  very  hard.  I  left  it  for  you." 
She  had  better  have  stopped  at  that.  But  she  could  not  be  con- 
tent without  a  finishing  touch : — "  Stop  a  minute  !  I  think  there 
was  a  long  word  that  looked  like  the  name  of  the  school.    ..." 

"  Vexton  Stultifer  ?  " 

"  It  looked  like  that.     But  I  couldn't  be  sure." 

"  Very  likely  to  be.  Probably  a  guess  of  his  about  where  the 
tale  came  from."  Then  they  talked  about  the  Eiffel  Tower,  and 
how  it  promoted  thunderstorms,  or  didn't. 


472  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

They  could  not  get  places  at  the  Opera  Comique,  but  a  box  was 
to  be  had  for  Divorgons  at  the  Folies  Bergeres.  Charley  had 
seen  it  before,  but  wanted  to  see  it  again.  He  viewed  it  as  an 
awful  lark,  especially  when  the  Him  and  the  Her  of  it  eat 
their  little  parting  diner-de-noces  together  and  the  waiter  has  to 
look  the  other  way.  Lucy  had  never  seen  it,  but  would  go,  to 
satisfy  her  husband,  only  that  she  suspected  it  of  being  inten- 
tionally spicy,  and  spiciness  of  set  purpose  always  bored  her. 
However,  she  would  go,  provided  she  wasn't  required  to  rush 
about  the  whole  afternoon  and  get  fagged  to  death  first.  This 
was  granted,  and  she  remained  at  the  hotel,  while  her  husband 
went  by  himself  for  a  long  rampage  all  over  Paris,  and  came 
back  at  dress-for-dinner  time  in  great  spirits,  saying  he  didn't 
believe  there  was  a  street  or  boulevard  in  that  vast  city  that  he 
hadn't  been  in.     Which  was  an  obvious  exaggeration. 

She  had  not  left  the  hotel,  although  she  had  contemplated 
being  driven  over  to  Vincennes,  to  call  on  the  Princesse  Dela- 
force  jMajeure — or  some  such  name, — whom  her  mother  had 
known  in  India  as  Annette  Smithson.  She  seemed  to  have  found 
time  hang  heavy  on  hand,  and  Charley  reproached  himself  for 
deserting  her.  "  Not  that  I  should  have  been  much  use,"  said 
he,  humbl}-,  "in  the  way  of  amusement!  Because  I  always  was 
a  slow  sort  of  beggar.  Now,  what  the  dooce  possessed  Fred  to 
go  rushing  away  before  our  Terni  was  up?  He  could  perfectly 
well  have  waited,  as  far  as  that  goes.  And  then  you  wouldn't 
have  found  it  so  dull.  .  .  .  ^Yell — of  course  if  he  had  come 
with  us,  he  couldn't  have  gone  with  his  mother  too.  Right  you 
are,  sweetheart !  " 

What  was  the  odd  look  in  those  lustrous  eyes  that  rested  on 
him,  rather  longer  than  was  their  wont?  Was  it  pity?  The 
story  hopes  so.     A  sort  of  pity,  suppose  we  say ! 

You  know  Divorgons?  Every  playgoer  does;  but,  perhaps, 
you  are  not  a  playgoer?  If  you  are,  you  may  be  inclined  to 
sympathise  with  the  view  this  story  takes,  that  the  lover  in  that 
play  is  really  needlessly  unattractive.  Surely  a  magnet  twice — 
three  times — a  dozen  times  more  powerful  would  have  been 
needed  to  detach  the  most  frivolous  of  wives  from  so  engaging 
a  husband.  Charley  evidently  had  an  impression  to  this  effect, 
for  he  propounded  the  view  that  the  lady  in  the  play  had  only 
become  reconciled  to  her  lawful  mate  because  of  the  terrible 
identity  of  the  unlawful  substitute  to  whom  she  stood  com- 
mitted— which,   by    the   way,   may    only   have    been   its    actor's 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  473 

endorsement  of  a  belief,  apparently  common  among  playgoers, 
that  no  man  is  too  repulsive  an  idiot  to  supply  a  co-respondent 
to  a  lady  anxious  to  develop  infidelity. 

This  suggestion  of  Charles's  procured  him  a  pleasant  experi- 
ence— his  wife's  unstinted  approval.  She  so  frequently  took 
exception  to  things  he  said,  as  often  as  not  passing  them  by  in 
silence,  that  it  was  a  real  pleasure  to  him  when  she  responded, 
this  time : — "  I  entirely  agree  with  you.  If  the  two  men  had 
been  changed  across,  the  husband  the  lover  and  the  lover  the 
husband,  she  would  have  made  short  work  of  her  marriage  tie." 
They  dwelt  upon  this  way  of  looking  at  the  matter,  and  endorsed 
it,  as  they  rode  back  to  the  xVvenue  de  I'Opera. 

There  was  a  man  in  blue  canvas,  who  was  no:  100,  but  other- 
wise undefined,  in  the  outer  entrance  of  the  hotel.  Charles 
would  have  recognised  him  at  once  for  the  sweeper  in  the  Bois 
de  Boulogne,  even  without  an  introduction  from  the  hall-porter, 
who  spoke  English  quite  intelligibly.  "  Thees  ees,"  said  he,  "  a 
working-man  for  M'sieur  Snai-eess.  He  hass  a  lettare  he  hass 
found."  The  working-man  seemed  overwhelmed  with  the 
grandeur  of  the  hall-porter,  and  indeed  rather  cowed  by  his 
surroundings  generally.  But  he  found  his  tongue,  and  backed 
it  with  a  hoarse  larynx,  identifying  himself  by  naming  the  place 
in  which  he  occurred  last,  and  the  date  of  the  occurrence. 

"  Bois  de  Boulogne,  M'sieu,  ce  matin — une  heure  avant- 
midi.   .    .    .   Vous  le  savez,  n'est-ce  pas?  " 

"  All  right.  Go  ahead.  En  avant.  I  know  all  about  it. 
You've  got  my  letter."  N^umero  Cent  understood  perfectly,  and 
was  producing  the  letter,  when  Charley  must  needs  complicate 
matters  by  endeavouring  to  be  still  more  intelligible,  in 
French : — "  Vous  avez  trouve  mon  lettre  dans  I'eau  ?  Ou 
est-il  ?  "  Which  made  Numero  Cent  stop  producing  the  letter, 
and  look  in  bewilderment  to  the  hall-porter  who  could  speak 
English,  for  an  explanation. 

"  Va  bien — va  bien !  M'sieu  vous  demande  sa  lettre.  Voila 
tout!    Donnez-la  lui." 

Numero  Cent,  relieved,  handed  the  letter,  in  its  envelope  and 
much  the  worse  for  its  adventures,  but  dry,  to  its  owner,  giving 
as  he  did  so  a  brief  sketch  of  its  recovery.  "  M'sieu  et  Madame 
s'en  vont;  et  moi,  des  le  soir  quand  je  laisse  travailler,  je  vais 
chercher  la  lettre.  Je  cherche  sur  la  rive  au  dela  de  I'eau.  Et 
je  cherche  et  je  cherche,  jusque  pst: — la  voila  sous  la  grille, 
dans  I'ecume.'  Alors  I'enveloppe — je  I'ai  trouvee — un  pcu  ?ale, 
oui !    Mais  je  lis  le  nom  de  I'Hotel  ..."    The  story  could  not 


474  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

spell  the  pronunciation  of  this,  if  it  tried.  It  was  so  mixed  with 
some  large  teeth  that  remained  of  Numero  Cent's  original  set. 
But  one  thing  was  clear — that  if  that  envelope  had  not  followed 
its  letter,  the  two  would  never  have  found  their  way  to  the  Hotel 
de  rEtoile.  Charley  saw  that  plain  enough,  but  the  man's  speech 
might  have  been  Esquimaux,  for  anything  he  understood  of 
it. 

The  lady  at  the  hotel-bureau  seemed  to  have  something  to 
explain  to  the  commissaire.  The  latter  was  to  tell  Monsieur 
something.  Madame  had  felt  fatiguee,  and  had  montee  par 
I'ascenseur  to  the  appartement.  Charles  caught  the  meaning  of 
this;  and,  turning  round,  saw  that  Lucy  had  not  waited  to  hear 
about  the  adventures  of  the  letter,  but  had  gone  upstairs  to  bed. 
He  felt  in  his  pocket  for  a  franc  to  give  the  Numero  Cent,  but 
found  that  his  discharge  of  the  cab  fare  had  left  him  Avithout 
small  change.  He  said  to  the  commissaire,  with  a  painful  intel- 
ligibility to  ears  accustomed  to  human  speech,  deliberately  trans- 
lated from  the  language  of  the  speaker : — "  Donnez  quelque  chose 
a  I'homme,  et  mettez  le  au  compte."  The  commissaire  nodded 
confidentially,  saying : — "  Justement !  "  But  he  probably  com- 
mandeered at  least  half  the  deux  francs  that  the  account  after- 
wards described  as  "  gratuite." 

He  hurried  upstairs,  somewhat  apprehensive  about  Lucy,  not 
waiting  for  the  second  coming  of  the  lift.  But  on  the  way  he 
opened  that  letter  to  read  its  postscript. 

He  was  not  prepared  for  it;  indeed,  nothing  could  have  pre- 
pared him.  He  had  to  pass,  all  on  a  sudden,  from  a  serene  faith 
in  his  idol  that  no  suspicion  had  been  able  to  disturb,  to  a 
knowledge,  complete  and  irresistible,  of  the  way  that  she  had 
played  him  false. 

He  read  and  re-read  that  postscript  in  the  vain  hope  of  reatl- 
ing  some  new  meaning  into  it — foisting  some  interpretation  on 
it  that  would  leave  him  his  life,  give  him  back  his  faith  in  his 
idol,  restore  peace  to  his  heart.  At  least,  some  gloss  upon  it 
that  would  hush  his  pulses  for  the  moment,  and  quench  the 
fire  that  the  reading  of  it  had  started  in  his  brain.  He  could 
not  have  suffered  more  had  the  crime  of  which  Lucy  stood 
convicted  been  ten  times  worse.  What  was  it,  after  all?  A 
promise  broken  and,  instead  of  an  honest  confession  on  occasion 
shown,  a  certain  amount  of — what  should  it  be  called? — equivo- 
cation?— prevarication? — as  a  sequel.  How  if  it  had  been — but 
Heaven  forgive  him  for  the  question ! — some  coarse  disregard  of 
married  honour,  some  blot  that  we  believe  possible  on  our  neigh- 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  475 

hour's  scutcheon,  hut  find  incredihle  on  our  own?  .  .  .  Oh — 
well — then  he  would  have  killed  himself. 

But  how  ahout  now?  What  was  he  to  do  now,  with  Lucy 
probahly  joostponing  final  retirement  until  he  was  well  on  his 
way  to  his  own  pillow?  The  question  would  not  have  arisen  if 
the  Etoile  had  been  able  to  accommodate  them  with  the  room 
apiece  that  they  had  asked  for.  But  Paris  was  full  of  a  good 
deal  of  world,  and  what  would  3'OU?  Perhaps  his  best  course 
would  be  to  delay,  on  the  chance  that  she  would  think  he  had 
met  a  friend,  or  gone  to  the  smoking-room  for  a  farewell  pipe, 
in  which  case  he  miglit  sneak  noiselessly  to  bed  at  an  unearthly 
hour.  But  no ! — that  would  not  do.  Such  proximity,  and  such 
a  silence  about  such  a  rift  between  them,  would  drive  him  raving 
mad.  Besides,  did  not  she  know,  and  know  that  he  knew,  the  con- 
tents of  that  postscript?  And  could  any  sane  man  believe  that 
Mr.  McMurrough  ever  met  another  lady  in  the  stalls  at  the 
Lyceum,  and  made  her  a  promise  of  secrecy  about  this  thing,  or 
any  other.     Then,  see  what  he  himself  had  overheard ! 

]N'o — no !  Speak  he  must,  and  that  forthwith.  He  crept  up 
the  flight  of  stairs  that  was  still  between  him  and  his  terrible 
task,  but  so  slowly  that  the  lift  made  two  journeys  in  the  time, 
shooting  past  him  in  its  cage.  Odd  moments  catch  Memory 
by  the  forelock,  and  hold  her  through  life.  This  was  one  such 
moment  for  Charles,  and  the  smallest  details  of  his  surroundings 
were  never  to  be  absent  from  his  image  of  it — or  rather  his 
efforts  to  forget  it — in  after  life.  Even  the  fact  that  the  wide 
balustrade,  that  was  between  him  and  the  ascenscur,  was  cased 
in  Utrecht  velvet  was  destined  to  remain,  unchangeable. 

Was  this  numero  deux-cent  soixante-quinze  their  number? 
Yes — but  there  was  a  bootless  vacuum  outside  the  door.  She 
was  still  going,  not  gone,  to  bed.     The  better,  perhaps. 

He  had  to  make  an  effort,  to  knock  at  the  door.  But  he  did 
it,  somehow;  and  a  voice  of  irritating  equanimity  told  him  to 
come  in.  He  wished  it  had  shown  apprehension,  annoyance, 
impatience.     Sweetness  and  light  were  terrible  barriers  to  pass. 

""\Miat  kept  you  so  long?"  This  was  not  a  complaint,  by 
the  tone;  merely  an  enquiry,  to  satisfy  curiosity. 

"  You  saw  who  the  man  was  ?  "  His  voice  was  not  like  itself, 
and  there  was  not  a  trace  of  its  usual  amiable  tone.  Charles 
was  gone,  and  another  man  had  come  in  his  place.  She  would 
have  done  more  wisely  to  recognise  this  change,  instead  of  ac- 
centing the  suavity  of  her  manner.  That  was  unnatural,  and 
would  have  sounded  overdone  even  if  perfectly  successful.     But 


47G  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

the  intrusion  of  a  barely  perceptible  nervous  catch  in  her  breath 
spoiled  all. 

Also  it  was  scarcely  natural  that  she  should  not  notice  his 
unusual  tone.  She  replied  to  his  semi-question  without  turning 
round  from  the  mirror  in  which  he  had  seen  and  spoken  to  her 
pale  reflected  face,  rather  than  to  herself :  "  I  saw  you  were 
speaking  to  a  man." 

"  And  you  saw  who  the  man  was."  His  repetition  of  his  own 
words,  this  time  a  statement  of  fact,  not  a  question,  was  in 
a  controlled  voice,  but  very  positive. 

She  threw  aside  disguise,  and  turned  full  upon  him  the  two 
lustrous  orbs  that  had  never  looked  on  him  in  anger  before. 
Thev  were  full  of  it  now.  "  Suppose  I  did !  "  said  she.  "  What 
then?" 

He  could  hardly  speak,  to  accuse  her  of  bald  falsehood.  But 
it  was  being  forced  home  to  his  mind  now,  how  she  had  lied 
in  self-defence,  and  knew  it.  Why,  else,  a  defiant  manner?  He 
threw  the  soiled  letter  on  the  dressing-table  before  her,  speech- 
lessly for  the  moment ;  then  at  last,  after  twice  walking  the  length 
of  the  room  restlessly,  found  his  voice,  to  say : — "  You  knew  the 
contents  of  that  letter.  You  knew,  I  mean,  what  was  in  the 
postscript.  You  wished  me  not  to  know,  so  you  threw  it  in 
the  water  that  I  should  not  read  it." 

"What  if  I  did?" 

"  You  knew  that  you  had  deceived  me  about  what  you  were 
saying  to  that  man  we  saw  at  the  play  in  London.  You  knew, 
when  we  were  on  our  way  back  to  your  mother's  in  the  carriage, 
that  you  had  not  forgotten  a  word  he  said  to  you,  nor  a  word 
you  said  to  him.  You  knew  that  your  object  was  to  conceal 
from  me  that  5^ou — you ! — were  his  informant  about  old  Car- 
teret's disappearance,  and  you  tried  to  make  me  believe — only 
this  morning — that  he  had  the  particulars  from  someone  else." 
He  picked  up  the  letter  from  where  it  lay  on  the  toilet  table; 
and  hurriedly,  with  a  shaking  hand,  drew  it  from  its  envelope, 
and  held  it  towards  her,  showing  the  postscript.  "  Can  you 
show  me  now  a  single  word  in  that  postscript  that  you  could 
possibly  have  mistaken  for  the  name  of  the  school  ?  " 

She  ignored  the  challenge.  Indeed,  nothing  could  have  been 
more  lio])elcss  than  an  attempt  to  find  in  it  any  words  that  could 
possibly  have  looked  like  "  Vexton  Stultifer."  So  hopeless  was 
any  direct  justification  of  the  deceptions  she  had  practised  that 
she  had  no  choice  but  silence,  or  to  raise  a  false  issue.  She  chose 
"the  latter.     "  I  wish  you  wouldn't  put  your  filthy  letter  on  the 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  477 

clean  damask  table,"  said  she,  petulantly,  but  much  as  she  might 
have  done  had  there  been  no  issue  between  them.  "  How  do 
you  know  where  it  has  been  ?     Where  did  that  man  find  it  ?  " 

A  false  air  of  being  in  the  wrong  went  with  the  admission  that 
it  had  been  in  a  drain-pipe,  but  Charles  faced  it  courageously. 
"  I  suppose  it  was  an  overflow  pipe  out  of  the  lake,"  said  he. 
"  He  said  something  about  a  grille,  I  believe.  A  grille  is  a  grat- 
ing, I  suppose?  There's  been  nothing  worse  than  scum  on 
it." 

To  head  off  a  discussion  about  her  personal  veracity  towards 
an  investigation  into  the  flavour  of  a  piece  of  soiled  paper  that 
had  been  in  very  bad  company,  was  a  tactical  triumph  for  Lucy. 
It  might  have  become  a  strategical  one — that  is  to  say,  might 
have  voided  the  whole  conversation — or  at  least  thrown  diffi- 
culties in  the  way  of  its  renewal — but  for  her  husband's  earnest- 
ness. He  was  in  no  mood  for  so  pitiful  an  evasion.  When  she 
replied  to  his  attempt  to  reinstate  the  letter  in  decent  society : — 
"  Whatever  it  has  had  upon  it,  I  do  not  want  it  on  my  table. 
Please  take  it  away.  Take  it  out  of  the  room — "  he  felt  that 
the  difficulty  of  renewing  the  previous  question  would  be  multi- 
plied tenfold  if  he  complied.  He  cut  the  difficulty  short  by 
picking  up  the  soiled  letter,  lighting  it  with  a  cigar-match  that 
he  took  from  his  pocket,  and  laying  it  carefully  on  a  patch  of 
safe  fireproof  floor  beside  the  unemployed  stove.  He  kept  watch 
upon  it,  not  heeding  her  protests  that  he  would  burn  down  the 
hotel,  and  so  forth,  until  it  was  a  cinder  without  a  spark.  Then 
he  flattened  it  with  his  foot  to  keep  it  still;  for  cinders  fly. 
But  he  did  not  speak  at  once,  and  his  silence  was  more  effective 
than  anything  he  could  have  said.  Nothing  was  left  of  the 
false  issue  she  had  raised,  and  she  had  no  choice  between  facing 
his  accusation  and  leaving  it  altogether  unanswered. 

"  Perhaps  now,"  she  said,  "  you  will  tell  me  the  meaning  of  all 
this."  The  interlude  of  the  burnt  letter  had  furnished  her  with 
a  plea — though  an  entirely  spurious  one — for  the  implication 
that  she  at  least  had  nothing  to  fear  from  the  truth,  and  that  it 
was  he  that  was  shrinking  from  its  disclosure,  though  ready  to 
make  insinuations  about  its  nature. 

He  passed  by  the  suggestion,  as  unworthy  of  comment. 

"  Lucy,"  said  he,  "  listen  to  me !  If  you  wish  it,  I  will  be 
silent;  I  will  not  say  a  word  of  your  disregard  of  my  wish  that 
Dr.  Carteret's  disappearance  should  not  be  talked  about.  Call 
it  a  misunderstanding — call  it  what  you  will !  It  was  a  matter 
of  small  importance — ^less  than  I  thought  it  at  the  time — more 

31 


478  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

a  deference  to  a  feeling  of  Fred's  than  because  I  judged  it 
necessary.     But  why — but  why   .    .    .  ?  " 

She  was  so  anxious  to  cross  the  golden  bridge  his  chivalry  had 
built  for  her  that  she  interrupted  him.  "  You  may  well  call  it 
a  matter  of  small  importance.  Why — what  difference  did  it 
make?  Besides,  you  should  have  made  it  clearer  that  it  was  a 
state  secret.  For  my  part  I  naturally  thought  the  more  publicity 
the  better,  if  the  old  gentleman  was  to  be  hunted  up  .    .    ." 

"  It  was  not  a  state  secret,  but  I  should  not  have  spoken  of 
it  to  you  if  I  had  not  thought  it  would  be  .  .  ."  He  stopped 
short  and  changed  the  words  he  meant  to  use,  to  get  something 
that  would  slur  over  her  offence,  .  .  .  "  if  I  had  not  thought 
I  could  make  my  wishes  clear   ..." 

She  struck  in  again,  to  keep  touch  with  an  accusation  more 
easy  to  defend  herself  against  than  an  indictment  for  her  subse- 
quent evasion  and  falsehood.  "  You  admit  then  that  it  wasn't 
a  hanging  matter — why  do  you  rake  it  up  now  ?  You  might  at 
least  have  waited  until  we  were  back  in  England,  and  not  spoiled 
our  holiday  with  horrors — all  that  dreadful  story  of  Dr.  Car- 
teret's disappearance.  Oh  dear ! — are  we  never  to  be  allowed 
to  forget  it  ?  " 

He  raised  his  voice  a  little,  impatiently.  "  It  is  not  necessary 
that  we  should  speak  of  it.  Let  us  keep  to  the  point.  You 
knew  the  contents  of  that  letter  I  have  just  burned.  You  tried 
to  conceal  the  postscript,  which  I  had  not  read,  by  throwing  it 
in  the  water.  You  tried  then  to  mislead  me  about  it,  by  pre- 
tending it  contained  a  reference  to  Dr.  Carteret's  school.   ..." 

Lucy  Avas  a  fool  here.  For  she  thought  to  find  shelter  behind 
the  fact  of  the  destruction  of  the  letter.  "  Who  is  to  know 
that  ?  "  said  she.  "  \\liv  did  vou  burn  the  letter  ?  Did  I  ask 
you  to  burn  it  ?  " 

"  I  know  it,"  said  Charles,  quietly,  "  and  that  is  enough.  No 
one  else  will  ever  know  it — would  ever  have  known  it,  from  me. 
But  that  does  not  alter  the  fact  that  you,  Lucy — you,  whom  I 
believed  in — you,  whom  I  loved  and  trusted  ..." 

"  Please  no  rhapsodies !  " 

"  Very  well !  "  He  was  silent  a  moment,  as  his  earnestness 
recoiled  before  the  half-sneer  of  her  words.  For  he  had  not 
expected  cynicism,  or  bravado,  and  this  was  very  near  to  both. 
It  was  but  a  moment,  and  then  he  resumed,  even  more  quietly 
than  before : — "  That  does  not  alter  the  fact  that  you  have  been 
scheming  to  keep  me  in  the  dark — that  you  have  been  able  to 
look  me  in  the  face  with  a  perversion  of  truth  on  your  lips  .  .  ." 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  479 

"  Why  not  say  a  lie  at  once,  and  have  done  with  it  ?  " 

He  could  neither  accept  the  word,  nov  repudiate  it.  So  he 
ignored  her  question,  and  continued : — "  As  you  did  on  your 
way  home  in  the  carriage,  that  night  of  the  play.  You  had 
completely  forgotten  every  word  this  Mr.  McMurrough  said. 
Was  not  that  it  ?  " 

"  It  suited  me  to  forget  it,  and  I  succeeded  in  doing  so.  I 
think  that  ought  to  be  enough." 

"  You  tried  to  remember  what  words  he  could  possibly  have 
used,  that  could  have  resembled  what  I  overheard.  Was 
that  so  ?  " 

"  Just  as  you  please  !  Why  do  you  keep  on  at  me  ?  Do  you 
expect  me  to  go  down  on  my  knees,  and  do  penance?  Do  you 
expect  me  to  cry  and  be  frightened  ?     Or  what  ?  ^' 

The  more  she  evaded  any  real  answer  to  his  accusation,  the 
more  determined  he  seemed  to  become  to  force  her  to  look 
the  position  seriously  in  the  face.  "  Dearest," — said  he — and  the 
tone  of  his  voice  showed  how  he  still  clung  to  his  love  for  her — 
"  I  expect  nothing  of  you  except  your  help.  I  ask  you  to  help 
me  to  forgive  the  wrong  you  have  done  me — for  it  was  a  great 
wrong  to  practise  deception  on  me,  to  try  to  keep  me  in  the 
dark.  What  had  I  done  to  deserve  such  treatment  at  your 
hands?  But  I  should  not  better  matters  by  helping  to  hush 
it  up — by  a  false  pretence  that  no  such  thing  had  ever  happened. 
That  would  only  have  been  mutual  consent  to  more  deception 
in  the  future   ..." 

She  cut  him  short  with : — "  I  quite  agree.  But  what  do  you 
want  noiv?  That's  what  I  want  to  get  at."  She  had  chosen  her 
line  of  defence.  It  was  to  be  that  he  was  fanciful,  suspicious, 
neurotic — a  capital  word  to  pooh-pooh  with,  that! — and  that 
she,  on  the  other  hand,  was  all  straightforward  common  sense, 
whose  scorn  of  sentimentalism  did  not  the  least  imply  the  ab- 
sence of  sterling  qualities,  whatever  they  are.  She  added,  the 
moment  she  saw  that  he  was  opening  his  lips  to  speak : — "  Per- 
haps you  will  have  the  goodness  to  tell  me  ?  " 

He  changed  what  he  was  going  to  say  to : — "  Yes — I  will  tell 
you."  Then  continued : — "  It  is  impossible  for  us — for  either 
of  us — to  pretend  that  what  we  know  has  happened  has  not 
happened.  God  knows  how  gladly  I  would  join,  for  my  part, 
in  such  a  mutual  deception,  if  anything  could  make  it  pos- 
sible. ...  Do  not  be  afraid — ^I  am  not  going  back  on  the 
story.  You  know  my  knowledge  of  it  now^  and  that  is  enough 
for  me."     She  may  have  felt  a  disposition  to  quarrel  with  this. 


480  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

but  discretion  had  the  best  of  it,  and  she  was  silent.  He  con- 
tinued : — "  I  will  not  be  what  you  call  rhapsodical,  since  it  dis- 
pleases you.  But  oh,  if  you  knew  how  my  heart  aches  that 
there  should  be  no  secrets  between  us,  that  I  should  be  able  to 
look  you  in  the  face  and  fear  no  concealment — nothing  in 
ambush  behind  it !  "  He  moved  uneasily  about  the  room,  and 
twice  began  to  speak,  and  stopped,  as  though  at  a  loss  for  words 
to  say  something  he  had  left  unsaid.  Then  he  seemed  to  see 
his  way,  and  began  abruptly : — "  I  cannot  tell  you  how  much 
happier  I  should  feel  if  .  .  ."  and  was  brought  up  sharp  by 
some  obstacle  inherent  in  the  limitations  of  language. 

She  said,  more  to  herself  than  to  him : — "  I  know,  precisely !  " 
and  the  manner  of  her  speech  said : — "  I  could  have  told  you  all 
this.     It  is  no  more  than  I  expected." 

He  said,  enquiringly,  as  one  who  may  not  have  heard  aright : — 
"  You — a — know  .    .    .  ?  "  and  waited. 

"  Yes — how  much  happier  you  would  feel  if  I  were  to  say 
I  was  sorry,  and  would  not  do  so  any  more.     Isn't  that  it  ?  " 

He  answered  gravely,  sadly : — "  That  is  not  exactly  what  I 
meant.  Let  us  talk  no  more  about  it."  And  was  silent.  The 
fact  was,  that  a  tone  of  semi-derision,  which  might  have  sat  on 
a  schoolgirl  brought  to  book  for  a  trivial  fib,  seemed  to  him  out 
of  place  in  a  mature  v/oman,  a  wife  and  mother,  convicted  of 
more  tlian  one  direct  falsehood ;  told,  or  acted,  to  keep  him,  her 
husband,  in  the  dark.  He  had  not  asked  for  artificial  penitence, 
but  the  entire  absence  of  an}i;hing  like  remorse  on  her  part 
whom  he  had  made  an  idol  of,  had  credited  with  every  virtue, 
was  a  greater  shock  to  him  than  angry  resistance  would  have 
been.     It  put  his  idol  in  a  new  light. 

What  was  so  painful  to  him  was  that  he  had  to  fight  against 
a  suspicion  that  this  attitude  of  hers  showed  the  depth,  or 
shallowness,  of  her  love  for  him.  Did  she  care  about  retaining 
his.  at  all?  Indeed,  had  she  done  so,  a  false  version  of  her 
motives  would  have  been  easy,  that  would  have  seemed  all- 
sufficient  to  a  man  so  ready  to  be  deceived.  Wliat  more  plausible 
than  that  she  had  merely  misunderstood  at  first  the  importance 
he  attached  to  her  secrecy  about  Dr.  Carteret;  but  that,  finding  it 
out  later,  she  had  been  driven  to  deception  by  terror  lest  he 
should  be  turned  against  her  on  discovering  her  untrustworthi- 
ness?  Where  is  the  man  that  would  not  have  forgiven  a  more 
serious  offence  in  a  wife  whose  plea  of  guilty  was  extenuated 
by  such  a  motive  as  the  desire  to  retain  his  love?  Charles  may 
not  have  formulated  such  a  defence  for  Lucy,  but  he  certainly    f 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  481 

felt  keenly  that  the  half-mocking,  half-defiant  spirit  she  had 
shown  was  inconsistent  with  his  idea  of  a  wife's  love  for  her 
husband — a  love  that  had  to  last  through  their  joint  lives  at 
least. 

All  the  chivalry  of  his  devotion  to  her  had  clung  to  the  idea 
that,  with  her  help,  and  on  that  condition  only,  the  opening  of  a 
gulf  between  them — one  that  might  never  close — would  be 
avoided.     And  her  help  had  not  been  forthcoming. 

The  way  that  she  answered  his  suggestion  that  they  should 
talk  no  more  about  it  had  no  help  in  it  either.  She  only  said, 
coldly : — "  I  do  not  desire  any  further  conversation  on  the  sub- 
ject." He  did  not  answer,  nor  speak  to  her  again  except  to  get 
her  assent  to  his  switching  off  the  electric  light.  On  doing  so  he 
said  good-night  in  a  disheartened  sort  of  way,  and  she  responded 
formally.  Those  two  good-nights  were  the  last  words  that  passed 
between  them. 


I  ■ 


CHAPTER  XXXI 

As  he  lay  there  in  the  dark,  chafing  at  his  own  bitter  thoughts, 
gradually  becoming  aware  of  the  full  meaning,  to  him,  of  the 
worst  disappointment  he  had  ever  experienced,  Charles  was  still 
so  tenderly  thoughtful  for  the  comfort  of  the  woman  who  re- 
mained in  spite  of  all — so  it  seemed  to  him — unchangeably  his 
own,  the  sharer  of  all  joy  and  sorrow  in  his  days  to  come,  that 
he  was  actually  glad  of  the  deep  breaths  that  he  listened  for  and 
so  soon  heard,  coming  from  the  curtained  bed  in  the  alcove  at 
the  far  end  of  the  room.  Why  should  she  be  miserable  because 
he  was? 

Rather,  if  anything,  it  tended  to  reinstate  her  in  her  old  posi- 
tion of  his  heart's  unquestioned  Queen,  that  she  should  show  a 
strange  insensibility  to  what  seemed  to  him  the  enormity  of  her 
behaviour.  It  was  a  certain  childishness — so  he  reasoned  with 
himself — a  simplicity  of  character  of  which  later  in  life  she 
would  recognise  the  perversity.  Had  he  not  himself  seen — or  at 
any  rate  could  he  not  remember  when  he  tried,  as  presently  he 
might? — cases  of  children  who  combined  entire  sweetness  of 
disposition  with  a  curious  unconsciousness  of  obligation  to  truth 
and  falsehood  ? — Well — he  had  heard  of  such  cases,  anyhow ! 

Besides,  we  could  not  expect  to  eat  our  cake  and  have  it  too. 
Look  how  odious  some  perfectly  truthful  people  were.  He  pro- 
ceeded to  credit  a  large  class  of  his  species  with  odiousness,  on 
the  strength  of  their  combination  of  physical  shortcomings  with 
vulgar  veracity.  He  wasn't  thinking  of  Elbows  Eraser;  though 
as  a  matter  of  fact  her  exorbitant  truthfulness  did  seem  to  be- 
long, as  it  were,  to — suppose  we  say? — very  moderate  feminine 
charms.  He  was  not  thinking  of  her,  because  of  her  attachment 
to  Charles  the  Third.     Oh  dear  no,  if  only  Lucy  .    .    .  ! 

However,  that  was  idiosyncrasy — a  freak  of  Xature.  It  was 
impossible  to  account  for  these  things.  Moreover,  Charles  the 
Third  was  almost  irresistible  now,  and  would  become  more  so 
when  he  was — suppose  we  say — a  little  more  conventional  on 
certain  points  of  social  demeanour.  Lucy  had  expected  too 
much  in  the  way  of  delicacy  from  a  character  who  was,  after 
all,  the  merest  rudiment.  His  own  indifference  on  these  points 
he  traced  to  the  natural  coarseness  of  his  own  fibre.      But  he 

483 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  483 

hoped  his  offspring  would  not  presume  on  tlie  existence  of  a 
similar  insensibility  in  his  lady  friend,  which  might  have  its 
limits,  although  his  wife  had  testified  of  her: — "Nancy  doesn't 
mind  babies,  and  I  do.  People  are  different."  Perhaps  Elbows 
was  a  freak  of  Nature  too — a  counterpart. 

He  felt  Fred's  absence  keenly.  When  one  has  for  years  car- 
ried all  one's  troubles  to  a  chosen  friend,  to  lighten  them  by 
turning  them  this  way  and  that,  in  confidential  council ;  and 
then  finds  oneself  cruelly  face-to-face  with  some  formidable 
trouble  in  that  friend's  absence,  one  learns  what  it  means  to 
be  thrown  on  one's  own  resources,  and  very  often  is  disgusted 
to  find  how  scanty  they  are.  Charles  was  far  from  satisfied  wdth 
his  stock,  in  this  emergency.  It  would  have  been  so  consolatory 
to  him  to  look  forward  to  an  analysis  of  the  whole  position  to- 
morrow with  Fred,  an  undisguised  condemnation — this  is  what 
he  would  have  liked  best — of  his  own  conduct  by  his  friend,  and 
an  unhesitating  espousal  by  him  of  the  case  of  his  wife.  He 
wanted  to  be,  as  it  were,  forced  into  a  minority  against  his 
own  judgment,  in  order  that  she,  spotless  in  his  eyes  till  now, 
should  be  w^ashed  clean  of  the  stain  of  falsehood  that  he  could 
not  shut  his  eyes  to  unassisted.  How  willingly  he  would  have 
eaten  humble  pie  to  the  end  of  her  reinstatement !  But  he  was 
powerless  before  the  evidence  that  she  had  more  than  once — 
more  than  thrice,  for  that  matter — lied  black  white  to  hide  her 
own  unfaith  from  him.  He  could  not  whitewash  her,  try  how 
he  might.  But  he  would  have  caught  gladly  at  the  absolution 
of  any  other  priest  to  get  an  excuse  for  his  own;  or,  sa}',  wel- 
comed a  verdict  of  not  guilty  in  any  other  court  to  justify  a 
condonation  of  the  offence  in  his. 

Was  his  mind  only  reciting  a  commonplace  of  human  thought, 
in  thus  condemning  a  sin  against  himself  by  a  woman  who  still 
held  him  spellbound  in  spite  of  all?  Why  could  he  not  let  his 
heart  release  his  speech,  as  it  yearned  to  do,  and  leave  him  free 
to  say : — "  I  love — love — love  you !  What  is  my  love  worth  if  it 
does  not  give  me  the  right  of  forgiveness,  plenary  and  uncondi- 
tional ?  "  Was  it  not  a  mere  convention  of  human  theology,  that 
reserves  this  right  of  complete  forgiveness  for  a  Supreme  Being, 
who  might  quite  excusably  summon  before  Him  all  the  Con- 
sistories of  all  the  Cathedrals,  all  the  Preachers  and  all  the 
Prophets,  and  say  to  them : — "  Am  I  to  be  twitted  with  my 
Omnipotence  by  the  whole  caboodle  of  you  every  Sunday,  and 
not  allowed  to  let  off  Sinners  at  pleasure  without  a  Sacrificial 
Atonement  and  no  end  of  fussy  complications?" 


484  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

Yes — a  convention,  if  jou  choose  to  call  it  so.  But  what 
check  would  there  be  on  persons  with  a  natural  turn  for  crime, 
if  indulgence  of  their  tastes  always  ended  in  a  let-off?  If  the 
Commissioners  discharged  all  bankrupts  on  principle,  without 
an  undertaking  to  pay  anything  in  the  pound,  how  long  would 
any  of  us  remain  solvent?  But  at  this  point  in  his  reflections 
Charles  felt  that  he  was  drivelling — which  had  not  occurred  to 
him  when  he  was  involved  in  his  Higher  Metaphysic  about  the 
Almight}' — seeing  that  there  was  no  sort  of  parallelism  between 
the  cases.  This  culprit  had  no  natural  turn  for  falsehood.  On 
the  contrary  she  was  intrinsically  truthful — did  he  not  know  her 
soul  at  home,  as  it  were?  Was  she  not  his  Wife,  with  a  capital? 
In  her,  it  was  no  vulgar  disposition  towards  fibs,  but  a  puzzling 
individuality,  to  be  regarded  as  Laputa's  Royal  Society  regarded 
Gulliver,  as  relplum  scalcath.  It  was  a  thing  that  occurs  once 
in  a  lifetime,  by  an  inexplicable  accident  .    .    .   and  so  on. 

So  on  for  full  four  hours,  by  the  counted  clocks.  So  on  with 
dry  eyes — too  dry — and  a  burning  palate,  hand-palms  on  fire, 
every  movement  painfully  in  check  lest  he  should  spoil  her  sleep, 
behind  those  curtains.  Then  a  sudden  change,  and  drowsiness. 
It  just  left  him  time  to  thank  God — more  respectfully  this  time 
— that  she  was  still  behind  tlrem  there,  and  would  be  there  when 
daylight  came,  and  then — oblivion. 

He  overslept  himself,  of  course.  But  not  unreasonably.  For 
a  clock  which  he  expected  to  stop  at  the  seventh  stroke  only 
went  on  to  the  ninth.  He  started  into  wakefulness  at  the  eighth, 
so  suddenly  that  he  had  sounded  his  electric  button  one  time 
for  the  femme-de-cliamhre,  before  he  knew  how  late  he  was. 
Also,  before  he  looked  at  the  still-closed  curtains  of  the  other 
bed.  She  was  sleeping  sound,  no  doubt  of  that !  But  he  would 
not  wake  her.  Not  yet,  at  any  rate !  Let  her  have  her  sleep 
out. 

To  that  end  he  rose  furtively,  and  explained  to  the  femme-de- 
cliamhre,  when  she  came,  that  he  had  sounded  for  0  show.  She 
guessed : — "  De  I'eau  chaude  ?  "  and  guessed  right.  He  felt  that 
his  French  was  coming  back  to  him — that  was  how  he  put  it — 
and  he  ventured  still  further,  saying : — "  Ne  f aites  pas  un  bruit 
pour  disturber  Madame."  Fifine  the  maid  heard  that  he  spoke 
of  Madame,  but  was  uncertain  what  he  had  said  about  her.  She 
said : — "  Madame  est  sortie  deux  heures  passees,"  and  he  did  not 
understand  her  in  the  least;  in  fact,  considered  she  was  rather  a 
stupid  Fifine. 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  485 

But  although  the  sound  of  her  words  remained  on  his  ears, 
i^specially  that  word  "  sortie,"  it  was  not  until  a  growing  wake- 
fulness brought  his  attention  to  one  or  two  things  that  struck 
him  as  abnormal  in  the  apartment  that  it  occurred  to  him  to 
assign  a  meaning  to  them.  "  That  young  woman  never  meant 
that  Lucy  had  gone  out !  "  was  what  he  said  to  himself,  all  but 
the  mere  articulation  of  it.  For  one  of  the  abnormalities  was 
the  disappearance  of  sundry  articles  of  wearing  apparel,  notably 
the  hat  and  overmantle  she  had  travelled  in,  from  the  pegs  they 
had  hung  on — he  remembered  them — the  night  before.  Yes — 
surely  he  remembered  them,  the  very  last  things  that  caught  his 
eye  when  he  switched  the  light  off ! 

Still,  she  never  could  have  got  up  and  gone  out  without  his 
hearing  her.  And  what  of  the  solid,  unmoved  look  of  those 
substantial  curtains  on  the  bed? 

Till  now,  he  had  been  managing  to  dress  in  studied  silence — 
had  washed  himself  with  no  more  noise  than  a  cat.  Xow,  he 
tried  a  slight  noise  or  two — indulged  the  gurgle  of  a  water- 
decanter,  dropped  a  slipper,  opened  and  shut  his  cigar-case — 
such  sounds  as  might  legitimately  hasten  awakening  at  the  end 
of  a  long  sleep.  Xo  results !  ISTot  a  movement  in  response. 
And  those  curtains  might  have  been  granite,  for  any  stir  in 
them  he  could  detect. 

.  He  began  to  be  less  certain  about  the  occupancy  of  the  bed 
behind  them.  Still,  he  owed  it  to  his  previous  convictions  to 
handle  the  subject  discreetly.  He  pulled  the  curtains  an  inch 
apart,  and  saw  in  an  instant  that  they  had  been  replaced  care- 
fully by  the  departing  occupant,  who  had  even  been  at  the 
trouble  of  accommodating  the  bedclothes.  She  had  got  up  and 
gone  out,  evidentlv,  as  the  chambermaid  had  probably  said.  .  .  . 
Well— what  of  that? 

That  was  all  right.  He  would  find  her  downstairs  in  the  salle- 
(i-manger.  Probably  she  had  breakfasted  by  herself,  after  a  walk 
in  the  glorious  weather,  and  would  be  sitting  on  at  the  table, 
waiting  for  him.  Eather  that,  than  that  she  should  have  de- 
parted  into  the  salon-de-lecture,  or  elsewhere.  Her  prolonged 
stay  at  table  would  look  more  like  peace  and  reconciliation  than 
any  move  to  another  anchorage,  which  would  involve  his  break- 
fasting alone. 

Still,  he  had  doubts  enough  on  the  point  to  make  a  parade  of 
his  confidence  desirable,  in  its  own  interest.  Here  was  a  delivery 
of  letters,  Just  come  in,  at  the  Bureau.     He  would  wait  to  see 


486  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

what  there  was  for  her,  and  take  it  to  her.  He  was  in  no  hurry, 
and  it  would  be  an  olive-branch. 

He  would  also,  to  emphasize  his  confidence,  open  and  pretend 
to  read  one  of  his  own  letters.  He  did  so,  and  read  it  slowly, 
deliberately,  all  the  length  of  the  salon,  until  he  arrived  at  the 
recess  in  which  they  had  welcomed  yesterday's  morning  roll  and 
coffee.     Then  he  looked  up,  and  found  her  place  empty. 

"  I  say !  .  .  .  What  the  dickens  .  .  .  ? "  He  asked  him- 
self the  question,  but  the  waiter  answered  it.  Madame  had  sortie 
de  bonne  heure,  tres  tot.  She  had  commandee  du  cafe-au-lait  et 
deux  oeufs  a  la  coque,  and  had  gone  away  it  was  more  than  an 
hour  since.     Of  course  this  was  all  in  French. 

The  same  officer  was  seated  at  the  same  table,  smoking  to  all 
appearance  the  same  cigar.  He  came  to  the  rescue,  addressing 
the  gar(^on,  who  stood  holding  Charles's  chair  as  if  it  was  a  horse 
he  would  mount  shortly — and  a  spirited  one  who  needed  restraint. 
This  officer  spoke  English  fluently,  with  a  sKght  foreign  accent. 
"  Your  vayeef  bass  gone  ayvay,"  he  said,  "  out  off  doorce.  I 
see  her  go  mayee-self ."  He  tapped  his  breastbone  to  show  whom 
he  was  referring  to.  "  She  told  the  dryvair  '  a  la  gare.'  I  see 
'eem  drife  ayvay,  kveek." 

"  My  God !  "  Charles  felt  as  though  he  had  had  a  blow  on 
the  head,  and  the  room  went  round.  He  was  not  aware  that  he 
staggered,  but  guessed  it  when  the  officer  put  his  cigar  suddenly 
but  carefully  on  a  plate  with  half-a-franc  on  it,  and  came  across 
to  guide  him  into  the  chair  the  garc:on  continued  to  offer.  He 
was  a  gargon  uninterested  in  the  life-dramas  of  the  hotel's  guests, 
except  in  so  far  as  they  affected  his  emoluments. 

"Cognac — p'tit  verre !  Yite!"  So  said  that  officer  to  him, 
and  he  hastened  away  to  obtain  the  brandy.  But  Charles  had 
pulled  himself  together  by  the  time  he  returned  with  it,  and  was 
concocting  an  explanation  of  his  volcanic  demeanour,  inter- 
spersed with  gratitude  for  the  interest  his  military  friend  had 
been  so  prompt  with.  As  the  latter  was  quite  ready  to  accept 
any  explanation,  whether  he  understood  it  or  not,  there  were 
advantages  of  a  sort  in  Charles's  being  almost  unintelligible  to 
him.  Probably  ''  misunderstanding "  was  the  only  word  of 
which  he  took  in  the  meaning.  But  he  was  very  proud  of  his 
English  speech,  and  the  way  he  understood  the  language.  He 
was  a  good-natured  sort  of  fellow. 

Charles  made  Jules  the  gargon  a  present  of  the  cognac,  and 
collected  his  scattered  faculties  as  best  he  could.  He  saw  dimly 
that  the  best  course  open  to  him  would  be  to  swallow  his  break- 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  487 

fast,  however  much  it  choked  him.  But  first  he  must  make  sure 
that  he  could  not  overtake  her  at  the  Gare  du  Nord.  For  he 
was  convinced  at  once  that  she  had  left  him  to  return  to  Eng- 
land.    Where  else  could  she  possibly  go? 

He  went  to  the  Bureau  to  learn  the  times  of  the  trains,  not 
feeling  equal  to  an  interpretation  of  a  Continental  Bradshaw, 
but  first  enquired — though  not  hopefully — about  his  wife's  de- 
parture. The  presiding  Goddess  at  the  Bureau  was  very  unsym- 
pathetic, but  testified  that  the  lady  had  certainly  appeared  shortly 
after  seven  o'clock^  having  descendue  her  tres  pen  de  baggage,  un 
petit  coli  comme  qa,  de  ses  propres  mains.  She  had  desired  a 
fiacre,  but  her  instructions  as  to  her  destination  had  not  been 
overheard — or  rather,  there  were  almost  as  many  testimonies  as 
terminuses  in  Paris,  no  two  alike.  Then,  asked  Charles,  what 
time  was  the  tidal  train  for  Calais?  Eight  o'clock  apparently. 
That  was  it,  clearly.  She  had  made  for  the  earliest  departure 
for  London. 

The  next  train  was  many  hours  later — well  on  in  the  after- 
noon. There  was  nothing  for  it  but  to  saunter  about  Paris, 
chafing,  counting  the  fruitless  minutes  as  they  passed,  wonder- 
ing at  the  innumerable  advertisements  of  bitters  and  laxatives 
that  covered  in  every  spare  wall  and  hoarding.  Why  did  so  many 
young  ladies  of  startling — very  startling — beauty  take  such  an 
interest  in  the  removal  of  their  compatriots'  obstructions?  He 
got  through  a  good  deal  of  time  going  up  the  river  to  Vincennes 
in  one  crowded  boat,  and  down  the  river  to  Auteuil  in  another. 
He  cared  for  nothing  but  getting  through  the  time,  and  he  got 
through  a  long  morning.  Then  he  returned  to  lunch  at  the  hotel, 
to  pay  his  bill  and  finish  his  packing.  After  that  there  was  only 
an  hour  to  get  through  before  starting  for  the  Nord.  He  would 
feel  himself  again  when  he  was  fairly  on  his  way  to  London. 
Till  then,  he  had  to  bear  the  delay,  and  he  bore  it. 

The  weight  on  his  soul  grew  less  as  he  approached  the  station ; 
still  less  as  he  booked  his  luggage,  and  hers  which  she  had  left 
behind;  but  it  was  not  until  the  train  really  began  to  move,  and 
the  clanks  of  dissevered  rails  at  intersections  were  approaching 
from  the  engine  and  dying  away,  each  after  its  climax,  towards 
a  last  guard's  van.  Heaven  knows  how  far  off,  that  ho  felt  his 
identity  to  the  full,  and  settled  down  to  an  evening  paper. 
Only  ten  hours  now  at  most,  including  his  journey  to  Wimble- 
don!  Or — stop  a  minute! — why  Wimbledon?  Because,  a  thou- 
sand to  one  she  had  gone  to  her  mother's !  Of  course  he  would 
find  her  there.     A  young  woman  who  leaves  her  husband  in  a 


488  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

fit  of  pique  naturally  goes  home.  Her  love  for  her  mother  may- 
have  been  lukewarm,  in  a  daughter,  but  she  was  her  daughter, 
for  all  that.  And  no  one  has  more  than  one  mother.  Yes — 
she  would  be  in  Devonshire  Place,  sure  enough!  Say,  twenty 
minutes  from  Charing  Cross.  He  would  leave  his  luggage  at 
the  Customs,  and  go  on,  straight. 

He  had  quite  made  up  his  mind  what  his  attitude  should  be. 
Peccavi — culpa  mea ! — that  was  to  be  the  upshot  of  his  pleading. 
He  had  done  his  part  as  the'  champion  of  Truthfulness — had 
spoiled  her  holiday  and  driven  her  away  over  the  dark  Channel 
alone.  Well — at  any  rate  she  must  have  had  a  beautiful  passage ; 
that  was  one  comfort !  This  wind,  that  was  keen  to  flatten  out 
the  osier  beds  in  the  drained  marshlands  out  yonder,  only  rose 
after  we  left  Paris.  A  northwester  of  this  sort  might  mean  a 
two-hours  passage,  turbines  or  no ! 

Calais  pier  and  the  usual  pretences  on  the  part  of  the  stagger- 
ing throng  that  has  to  get  across  the  gangway  and  secure  a  sofa 
in  the  cabin,  or  failing  that,  a  chair  in  a  sheltered  corner.  A 
throng  that  encourages  itself  with  a  delusion  that  this  wind  is 
endemic — always  does  blow  at  the  mouth  of  this  harbour.  It 
will  be  a  lot  better,  your  informant  can  testify  from  past  experi- 
ence, when  we  get  fairly  out  to  sea.  Has  he  not  known  Calais 
harbour  from  early  boyhood? 

Then  disillusionment,  and  general  surrender  to  despair !  The 
turbines  that  were  going  to  drive  the  ship  arrow-straight  ahead, 
through  billows  mast  liigh  if  obtainable,  seem  deterfliined  to 
disappoint  their  backers.  Stewards — the  converse  of  those  at 
public  dinners — rush  about  with  armloads  of  empty  vessels  and 
sixpennyworths  of  brandy.  The  stewardess  has  too  much  to  do, 
and  can't  do  it.  But  this  will  rather  increase  her  salary,  so  she 
is  resigned.  Then  your  ticket,  please;  and  we  shall  be  in  in 
ten  minutes  now.  Are  we  very  late?  Well,  we  ought  to  be  in 
by  now — that's  about  all  it  comes  to ! 

Then  a  hush,  and  a  sudden  alacrity  to  be  among  the  first  to 
scramble  up  the  gangway.  Then  the  train — in  Charles's  case 
the  first  cargo  dispatched — and  an  English  evening  paper  to 
bring  him  up  to  date.  Then,  gliding  through  darkness  with  a 
preposterous  feeling  of  surprise  that  everything  here  is  so  in- 
tensely the  same  as  when  he  left  it  less  than  a  week  ago. 

What  did  he  care  how  near  midnight  he  rang  up  the  immacu- 
late butler  at  Devonshire  Place?  Or  indeed  his  august  mother- 
in-law  herself?  Lucy  was  there,  and  he  wanted  to  eat  that 
humble  pie  and  get  it  over.     All  would  be  well,  and  they  would 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  489 

enjoy  the  holiday  yet  that  he  had  been  looking  forward  to. 
What  was  it,  after  all,  but  a  double  journey  for  both  of  them? 
And  by  good  luck  she  had  escaped  the  dusting  he  had  just  had, 
on  the  Channel  boat.  For  an  amphibious  person  on  the  pier 
had  said  to  him,  in  response  to  an  enquiry : — "  You  should  have 
been  a  bit  smarter  and  caught  the  morning  boat,  if  you  wanted 
a  smooth  run.  Just  your  sort  of  water  it  was.  Likewise,  if 
you  wanted  a  bad  passage,  you  might  have  had  that,  in  an  hour 
or  so.  Because  it's  just  as  like  as  not  to  turn  stormy."  Charles 
shuddered  to  think  what  this  person's  sort  of  water  Avas. 

A  little  scheme  ran  in  his  head  how  he  and  Lucy,  friends 
again  after  reconciliation — better  friends  than  before,  for  that 
matter — would  celebrate  the  occasion  by  a  little  diner-de-noces, 
like  the  people  in  that  play.  Only  last  night — oh,  think  of  it ! 
That  scheme  made  a  halt  in  Oxford  Circus,  due  to  a  traffic  block 
unexplained,  quite  endurable,  and  did  not  end  because  the  cab- 
man turned  round  and  went  through  Hanover  Square.  But  it 
lapsed  under  exasperation  at  the  length  of  Wimpole  Street;  an 
unchangeable  affliction  which  mere  measurement  does  not 
lighten  the  burden  of,  in  spite  of  the  nature  of  Magnitude. 

But  it  ended,  and  here  we  were  at  last !  He  did  not  dismiss 
his  cab;  for,  though  she  was  sure  to  be  here — where  else  could 
she  be? — he  was  not  going  to  intrude  on  his  mother-in-law's 
hospitality.  He  would  go  on  to  the  diggings  and  astonish  Mrs. 
Gam  when  she  came  in  the  morning. 

He  decided  that  a  generous,  outspoken  knock  would  herald 
him  best — would  forecast  the  import  of  his  mission  to  Lucy. 
He  could  hear  sounds  within  of  a  deliberate  butler  coming  up 
from  the  kitchen;  and  in  his  footsteps,  each  one  of  which  was 
grudged  as  unnecessary,  that  butler's  conviction  that  he  was  a 
Mistake.  Why  the  devil  could  not  that  old  fool  be  a  little 
quicker  ?  Even  if  he  was  ever  so  much  convinced  that  that  knock 
had  come  to  the  wrong  door,  he  would  have  to  open  it  in  the 
end. 

No  shooting  back  of  bolts  or  unslotting  of  chains  on  the  other 
side  of  that  door !  Someone  was  coming  home  late,  with  or 
without  a  latchkey.  It  could  only  be  Mrs.  Hinchliffe  herself. 
Ten  to  one  he  would  find  his  wife  alone,  because  she  could 
scarcely  have  accompanied  her  mother,  who  never  went  out 
except  to  dinner,  and  could  not  bring  an  uninvited  guest.  So 
much  the  better ! 

The  demeanour  of  Mr.  Peterfield  was  dictated  by  what  was 
due  to  his  position  on  the  one  hand,  and  by  unqualified  aston- 


490  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

ishment  on  the  other.  The  two  dictations  clashed,  as  no  well- 
constituted  butler  ever  shows  surprise — it  is  a  human  weakness. 
Had  he  given  way  to  his,  Charles's  expectation  of  finding  his 
wife  at  her  mother's  would  have  been  cut  short  on  the  doorstep. 
As  it  was^  the  mere  fact  that  Mr.  Peterfield's  reply  to  his 
enquiry : — "  When  did  Mrs.  Snaith  come  ?  What  o'clock,  I 
mean  ?  "  was  caught  by  a  gasp,  did  nothing  to  shake  his  deeply 
rooted  certainty  that  the  young  lady  had  arrived,  and  was  in  the 
house.  It  had  still  such  hold  over  him  that  he  could  repeat : — 
''  What  o'clock  ?  When  did  she  come  ?  "  with  scarcely  a  trace 
of  missivino;  in  his  own  voice. 

Mr.  Peterfield  overcame  the  gasp,  and  spoke.  "  I  ask  your 
pardon.  Sir,"  said  he,  "  but  did  I  understand  you  to  sav  Mrs. 
.    .    .   Mrs.   .    .    .?" 

"  Mrs.  Snaith,  I  said.  Who  the  devil  should  I  say  but  Mrs. 
Snaith  ? "  Charles  shouted  impatiently,  but  his  voice  fell  to 
say : — "  Do  you  mean  that  she  isn't  here  ?  Where  is  her 
motlier  .  .  .  ?  When  do  you  expect  her  in  ?  Mrs.  Hinchliff e 
— your  mistress,  I  mean.  Where  is  she  ?  "  For  Charles  had 
inferred  from  surroundings  that  his  mother-in-law  Avas  dining 
out.  The  butler  looked  at  his  watch.  Mrs.  Hinchliffe  might 
come  any  minute, — was  late,  in  fact.  "  Then  where  is  Mrs. 
Snaith  ?  ^^^len  did  she  come  ?  "  Charles  repeated  the  question 
with  a  voice  again  raised. 

"  Would  you  excuse  me  just  one  moment.  Sir  ?  "  The  butler, 
confronted  with  so  trenchant  a  tone  of  doubt  on  a  point  of  what 
was  to  him  certainty,  got  away  to  the  kitchen  stairtop,  and 
sought  confirmation  from  the  cook.  He  came  back  from  a  col- 
loquy fortified,  and  prepared  to  deny  Mrs.  Charles  Snaith,  at 
all  hazards.  "  I  would  not  have  spoke  positive,  myself,  Sir. 
But  Jlrs.  Branch  is  not  likely  to  be  mistook.  Mrs.  Snaith  has 
not  been  here,  and  we  certainly  was  under  the  impression  she  was 
in  Paris,  Mrs.  Branch  and  myself." 

"  She  must  have  been  here,  I  tell  you,"  Charles  almost  shouted. 
It  seemed  too  incredible  that  she  should  never  have  been  to  the 
house,  although  possible  that  she  had  gone  home  afterwards. 
Mr.  Peterfield  looked  like  a  butler  who  knew  it  would  be  bad 
form  to  contradict  his  betters,  and  was  correctly  silent.  Mrs. 
Branch,  an  old  lady  whose  resources  in  clean  frills  and  aprons 
seemed  inexhaustible,  testified  from  the  top  of  the  kitchen  stairs, 
as  one  who  really  had  no  claims  to  be  heard  above  the  basement. 
'"  I  think  you  will  find  Thomas  is  right.  Sir.  It  would  have  been 
mentioned  to   me   if  Miss   Lucv   had   been  here."      For   Mrs. 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  491 

Branch  ignored  on  principle  that  that  young  lady  had  changed 
her  name.     It  was  an  assertion  of  her  footing  in  the  family. 

Charles  did  not  quarrel  with  this.  He  even  accepted  her 
conservatism,  repeating  the  name  after  her  without  inverted 
commas.  "  Miss  Lucy  left  me  in  Paris  this  morning  to  come  to 
London.  She  ought  to  be  here.  I  thought  I  should  find  her 
here."  He  passed  into  the  house  for  nearer  speech.  "  Are  you 
absolutely  certain  she  has  never  been?  "  To  which  Mrs.  Branch, 
always  looking  beyond  him  for  sanction  and  confirmation  from 
the  butler,  as  a  higher  authority,  replied : — "  There  could  no  one 
come  to  the  house  without  Mr.  Peterfield  knowing,  or  me." 

Charles  was  discouraged,  and  bewildered.  The  idea  had  pos- 
session of  him  that  his  wife  never  would  run  away  from  him  to 
go  back  to  their  own  home,  and  had  left  his  imagination  no 
resource  but  to  picture  her  at  her  mother's.  Not  finding  her 
there,  how  could  he  think  of  her  otherwise  than  as  at  The  Cedars  ? 
— there  was  no  other  possible  place.  And  apart  from  the  diffi- 
culty of  following  her  now — for  a  cab  all  the  way  was  the  only 
chance  now,  at  near  midnight — a  hundred  irreconcilables  started 
up  full-armed  to  be  dealt  with.  The  only  idea  that  crossed  his 
mind  was  that  possibly — only  was  not  this  too  good  to  be  true  ? — 
that  inexplicable  callousness  towards  their  son  and  heir  had  sud- 
denly vanished,  mysteriously  expelled  by  the  excitement  of  her 
resentment  against  his  father. 

A  very  slight  chance  of  a  very  big  boon  is  a  palliative.  Panic 
must  hold  her  hand  as  long  as  one  can  caress  the  idea  that  all 
this  seeming  disaster  is  a  blessing  in  disguise.  Charles  was 
reassured  too  by  the  butler's  calmness. 

He  settled  down  to  a  proffered  Times  sheet,  with  an  option  of 
a  Graphic  in  reserve.  But  he  was  only  affecting  an  interest  in 
their  contents,  not  to  fall  short  of  Mr.  Peterfield's  philosophic 
calm.  He  would  take  nothing  after  his  journey — he  was  sure  of 
that,  in  spite  of  Mr.  Peterfield's  confidence  that  he  could  offer 
him  anything — everything.  He  sent  the  cabman's  fare  out,  de- 
ciding that  he  would  walk  to  the  diggings — could  get  another 
cab  anyhow  if  his  valise  was  too  heavy  to  carry.  He  only  caught 
six  words,  or  perhaps  seven,  of  the  chat  between  the  cabby  and 
the  butler — not  a  dispute  about  the  fare,  for  it  was  like  Caesar's 
wife — but  probably  about  the  general  situation.  For  the  six 
words  were : — "  I  could  have  told  him  that,"  and  the  doubtful 
seventh  was  Cl-cch!     It  is  a  word? 

Mr.  Peterfield  returned  with  news  of  his  mistress.  He  was 
pretty  sure  that  was  our  carriage  just  come  into  the  street.     His 


492  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

confidence  in  the  length  of  Wimpole  Street  allowed  him  to  bring 
this  fact  upstairs  without  misgiving  about  getting  back  in  time 
for  the  knock,  which  was  de  rigueur.  It  would  not  have  been  at 
all  correct  for  him  to  wait  and  watch,  like  Mrs.  Bluebeard  for 
her  brothers. 

"  Oh — Charles !  .  .  .  AAHiat's  this  nonsense  about  Lucy  ? 
She's  in  Paris."  This  excellent  lady  was  disposed  to  be  intol- 
erant towards  actual  facts,  when  they  ran  counter  to  her  pre- 
determination of  them. 

"  She's  nothing  of  the  sort,"  said  Charles.  "  She's  in  London, 
somewhere.  Unless  " — dropping  his  voice — "  something's  hap- 
pened." 

Mrs.  Hinchliffe  was  taken  aback.  Or  possibly  her  breath  had 
been  affected  by  the  stairs.     She  fell  back  in  an  armchair. 

"  What  silliness !  "  said  she.  "  As  if  anything  could  have 
happened !  " 

Charles  felt  it  would  be  as  well  to  get  his  tale  told.  He  passed 
by  what  amounted  to  a  claim  that  Mrs.  Hinehliffe's  belongings 
were  immune  from  human  mischances,  and  continued : — "  Lney 
came  away  from  Paris  this  morning  .  .  .  without  consulting 
me   ..." 

"  Without  consulting  you  ?     What  does  that  mean  ?  " 

"  And  ought  to  have  arrived  in  London  .  .  .  Well — by  six 
o'clock  at  the  latest.     1  expected  to  find  her  here." 

"  And  why  did  you  expect  to  find  her  here  ?  " 

"  Because  nothing  would  be  ready  for  her  at  home.  But  she 
must  have  gone  there,  1  suppose." 

Mrs.  Hinehliffe's  most  active  quality  was  torpor — if  it  is  a 
quality,  and  can  ever  be  an  active  one — and  her  whole  soul  would 
rise  to  resist  any  inroad  upon  it.  Now,  a  son-in-law  who  rushed 
into  her  house  at  midnight  expecting  to  find  his  wife  there  was 
clearly  an  inroad  on  her  torpor.  She  caught  at  his  supposition 
that  his  wife  must  be  at  home  in  order  that  his  departure  thither 
should  be  as  prompt  as  possible.  "  I  suppose  she  has  gone  there," 
said  she.  And  shut  in  a  yawn  with  five  fingers  and  several 
diamonds  in  a  way  that  added : — "  Hadn't  you  better  follow 
her?" 

Charles  recognised  the  force  of  the  yawn  by  saying : — "  And  I 
suppose  I  had  better  go  too  " — and  rose  to  do  so.  He  had  ex- 
pected a  more  sympathetic  interest,  and  was  disappointed.  How- 
ever, he  was  getting  to  know  this  mother-in-law  of  his.'  He  could 
soften  the  position — make  its  angles  less  abrupt,  so  to  speak — 
by  looking  at  his  watch,  and  did  so.     "  Gracious  bless  us !  "  said 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  493 

he.  "  I  had  no  idea  it  was  so  late."  And  held  out  his  hand, 
good-night-wards.  "  I'll  send  you  a  card,"  said  he,  imputing  an 
interest  in  her  daughter  to  this  lady;  indeed,  he  felt  her  stoni- 
ness  rather  an  embarrassment. 

"  Oh  yes — do  by  all  means !  "  said  the  stony  one.  "  But  no 
doubt  she's  all  right." 

Charles  was  going — going — but  not  gone,  when  a  slight  stir- 
ring in  the  dry  bones  of  her  apathy  made  Mrs.  Hinchliffe  say : — 
"  I  suppose  I'm  not  to  be  told  anything  ?  "  The  suggestion  that 
she  was  being  kept  out  in  the  cold  was  unwarrantable.  But 
Charles  forgave  it.  He  was  too  glad  to  get  anyone  to  talk  to 
about  the  situation,  on  any  terms,  to  be  drawing  fine  distinctions. 

He  decided,  after  a  moment's  reflection,  on : — "  You  see — the 
fact  is — we  had  had  a  misunderstanding." 

"  A  misunderstanding !  "  Mrs.  Hinchliffe's  sudden  look  at 
him  as  she  repeated  his  words  said  plainly : — "  Oh  ho ! — this  is 
interesting.     Tell  more !  " 

He  resumed  the  chair  he  had  left,  and  started  on  a  complete 
explanation,  from  the  beginning,  of  Lucy's  rash  disclosure  of 
the  particulars  of  Dr.  Carteret's  disappearance,  and  of  her  sub- 
sequent silence — that  was  how  he  put  it — about  the  newspaper- 
man to  whom  she  had  disclosed  them.  He  was  humbly  apolo- 
getic for  his  own  part  in  the  matter,  ascribing  to  himself  a 
most  reprehensible  impatience  and  hastiness  of  temper.  This 
may  have  been  partly  due  to  the  fact  that,  as  things  stood,  it 
was  impossible  to  be  sure  that  something  had  not  happened. 
How  often  one  notes  a  growing  leniency  towards  the  failings  of  a 
person  who  may  be  in  pieces,  or — as  Mr.  Mantalini  said — a  demd 
damp  unpleasant  body !  We  earn  the  good  opinion  of  our  fel- 
low-creatures by  Death,  especially  when  it  makes  short  work  of 
us,  and  we  have  had  the  misfortune  to  be  caught  napping  by 
Azrael. 

He  did  not  observe — his  preoccupation  perhaps  made  him 
unobservant — that  his  mother-in-law's  aroused  interest  seemed  to 
die  down  mysteriously  in  the  course  of  his  narrative.  It  seemed 
to  subside  as  he  disclosed  the  bone  of  contention  between  her 
daughter  and  himself.  A  mere  suppressio  veri;  scarcely  a  fib, 
certainly  not  a  lie !  Eidiculous  to  fall  out  over  a  thing  like  that. 
He  had  a  sense  that  his  tale  had  somehow  fallen  flat — not  that 
his  hearer  had  been  expecting  something  juicier,  and  was  dis- 
appointed. Far  from  it! — in  fact,  he  credited  her  maternal 
solicitude  with  a  sense  of  relief,  which  she  may,  or  may  not,  have 
experienced. 

82 


494  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

"  Is  that  all  ?  "  said  she,  when  he  had  finished.  "  Just  a  fit 
of  petulance.  Well — we  must  hope  you'll  find  her  more  reason- 
able when  yon  get  to  Wimbledon.  Dear  me ! — as  if  I  didn't  know 
Lucy." 

Unless  a  man  loves  his  mother-in-law — and  Charles's  love  for 
his  was  a  very  chilly  one — he  resents  a  superior  maternal  tone 
towards  his  wife.  He  was  not  yet  prepared  to  join  chorus  in  a 
patronising  criticism  of  her  weak  points,  Avhile  he  would  have 
welcomed  any  censure  of  his  own  impatience  gratefully.  So  he 
looked  at  his  watch  again ;  a  pure  formality,  as  he  knew.  Time 
had  continued  since  he  consulted  it  last,  fifteen  minutes  ago. 
And  then  he  said  good-night,  and  meant  it^  so  far  as  it  was 
simply  a  finality.  As  a  wish  for  a  fellow-creature's  slumbers, 
it  was  lukewarm.  For  he  thought  Mrs.  Hinchliffe  should  have 
shown  more  concern  about  her  daughter's  non-appearance. 

He  was  not  really  seriously  frightened  about  her  himself,  being 
convinced  he  should  find  her  all  safe  at  The  Cedars  to-morrow. 
But  he  felt  bewildered  at  his  transitions  from  place  to  place,  and 
at  the  odd  turn  events  had  taken,  as  he  walked  by  short  cuts, 
known  only  to  the  confirmed  Londoner,  through  intricate  Soho, 
by  Lincoln's  Inn  to  the  Temple.  Trymer's,  that  believed  him 
afar  in  foreign  cities,  ignored  him  on  that  account  still  more 
forcibly  than'it  had  done  in  his  absence  in  broad  daylight.  Its 
gloomy  silence  in  that  small  hour  of  the  morning  oppressed  him, 
as  he  paused  to  think  how  he  saw  the  last  of  Fred,  waving  fare- 
well to  him  opposite  the  College  of  Surgeons.  What  malice  of 
Fortune  had  possessed  her  that  she  should  spirit  him  away  Just 
at  the  time  when  he  was  most  wanted?  For  who  could  have 
calmed  the  troubled  waters  of  his  life — and  Lucy's;  it  was  to  be 
the  same  life — like  Fred?  However,  he  could  write  him  a  long 
letter,  begging  him  to  write  to  Lucy;  telling  the  whole  story 
without  reserve;  relying  on  him  to  pooh-pooh  the  offence  of  the 
newspaper  paragraph.  He  went  a  long  way  in  forecasting  the 
words  Fred  would  employ  in  speaking  of  it  to  Lucy — how  that 
he  was  sorry  to  hear  that  Charley  had  been  making  an  ass  of 
himself  about  that  premature  announcement  of  his  uncle's  dis- 
appearance. As  if  it  mattered  one  straw  when  the  thing  came 
to  be  known  of !  She  was  to  tell  Charley  to  shut  up,  and  keep 
his  legal  views  to  himself  till  they  were  called  for.  Continuous 
self-blame,  as  the  source  and  origin  of  the  whole  business,  would 
be  his  until  he  was  assured,  from  her  lips  or  pen,  that  every 
ripple  the  affair  had  raised  on  the  calm  waters  of  their  married 
lives  had  disappeared.     This  imaginary  letter  of  Fred's  went  oa 


I 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  495 

to  announce  his  return  in  a  few  days,  he  having  already  out- 
stayed his  most  liberal  estimate  of  a  holiday.  But  he  did  not 
expect  to  find  them  in  London — hoped  they  would  be  climbing 
Dolomites,  or  otherwise  touristically  employed. 

He  arrived  at  the  diggings,  and  mounted  its  familiar  prison- 
stair,  haunted  by  a  painful  consciousness  of  the  dissimilarities  of 
Paris  and  London.  His  little  den  was  in  apple-pie  order,  and  he 
felt  accordingly  grateful  to  Mrs.  Gam.  But  sheets  on  the  bed 
were  not  to  be  expected  by  a  home-comer  who  was  not  expected 
himself.  No  one  lies  down  in  blankets  until  he  is  so  sleep  rife 
that  he  cannot  lie  awake  in  them.  A  rhinoceros  might  do  so 
cheerfully,  not  an  ordinary  thin-skinned  human  creature. 
Charley  sat  down  to  write  to  his  friend  without  a  guess  that 
every  word  he  wrote  would  have  its  sting. 

Where  did  Fred  suppose  he  was  as  he  wrote  ? — so  ran  his  letter. 
Postmarks  and  date  apart,  would  he  have  guessed?  However, 
the  date  as  he  had  written  it  above  was  written  by  an  honest 
Injun,  and  official  stamps  would  be  as  illegible  as  usual  on  the 
envelope  to-morrow.  Then  reasons  why,  showing  that  Injun  in 
a  most  unfavourable  light.  He  had  behaved  odiously  to  Lucy 
in  Paris,  found  fault  with  her,  lectured  her,  nagged  at  her. 
And  what  for,  did  Fred  suppose?  Nothing  in  the  world  but 
that  old  story  of  the  paragraph — Fred  would  remember  all  about 
it — in  the  newspaper  two  years  ago !  It  seemed  that  he  had 
failed  to  impress  his  fiancee  at  the  time  with  the  confidential 
character  of  his  communication,  and  an  impudent  Irish  editor 
had  wormed  it  out  of  her  under  solemn  promises  of  secrecy. 
Charley  exaggerated  grossly  in  favour  of  the  culprit  at  this 
point.  In  fact,  his  whole  story — for  he  gave  full  details — took 
Lucy's  part  against  himself. 

AVell — said  his  letter— what  was  the  consequence?  His  atti- 
tude of  blame  towards  his  wife  could  only  have  one  result — that 
of  causing  her  intense  annoyance,  more  particularly  as — so  he 
suspected — she  was  probably  quite  unconscious  of  any  blame- 
worthiness in  her  conduct  from  the  beginning.  But  she  need 
not — and  this  was  his  only  serious  indictment  against  her — she 
need  not  have  acted  so  hastily  as  she  did.  He  then  filled  in 
particulars  of  her  flight — as  he  took  for  granted — to  England, 
and  brou.ght  his  narrative  up  to  the  mom.ent  of  writing.  His 
letter  reflected  more  credit  on  the  chivalry  of  the  writer  than  it 
did  on  his  truthfulness. 

It  ended : — "  I  shall  go  straight  from  here  to  The  Cedars  to- 
morrow, and  shall  make  the  best  amends  I  can  for  my  unhus- 


496  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

bandly  conduct.  Now  I  want  you,  dear  old  boy,  to  do  me  a  good 
turn.  There  is  no  sense  or  reason  in  her  making  herself  uncom- 
fortable about  that  newspaper  business.  The  thing  luas  my  fault 
from  the  beginning.  So  just  you  write  her  a  long  letter,  wig- 
ging me  up  hill  and  down  dale^  and  acquitting  her  without  a  stain 
on  her  character.     Twig?  ^' 


CHAPTER  XXXII 

He  went  to  bed  as  soon  as  he  felt  sure  of  sleep,  and  was  not 
disappointed.  He  woke  next  morning  early,  and  remembered 
that  he  had  forgotten  that  he  should  want  breakfast.  Never 
mind !  There  was  a  place  at  the  corner  of  Smith  Street  which 
would  be  open  early  and  he  could  get  a  cup  of  coffee  there. 
Could  he?  He  had  forgotten  that  he  was  not  in  Paris,  but  in 
London. 

A  woebegone  waiter,  who  was  providing  an  even  more  woe- 
begone customer,  who  looked  as  if  he  had  passed  the  night  in 
the  streets,  with  a  pennyworth  of  milk  and  a  slice  of  j-esterday's 
bread,  heard  Charles's  application  for  breakfast,  and  seemed  to 
doubt  his  hearing.  "  Did  you  say  coffee  ?  "  said  he.  Yes — that 
had  been  Charles's  very  expression.  "  You'll  have  to  w^ait,"  said 
the  woebegone  waiter.  Charles  thought  so  too,  to  judge  by 
appearances ;  and  went  to  the  buffet  at  Waterloo ;  where,  having 
compounded  for  coffee  by  accepting  chocolate,  he  got  away  to 
Wimbledon,  and  finally  by  cab  to  The  Cedars.  His  reflections 
by  the  way  on  the  differences  between  London  and  Paris  were 
uncomplimentary  to  the  former. 

Well — here  he  was  at  last!  Now  he  should  find  Lucy,  and 
make  it  all  up.  And  of  course! — there  was  all  her  luggage  at 
Charing  Cross.  Nothing  to  be  done  but  disinter  it  at  the 
Customs,  and  they  could  be  off  again,  to  catch  the  midday  boat. 
After  all  he  was  not  sure  he  was  not  glad  this  had  happened. 
Better  this  way  than  that  they  should  have  gone  on,  with  a  buried 
misunderstanding.     Eather  a  heavy  price  to  pay,  though ! 

It  was  Tom  the  gardener  who  came  to  the  gate.  It  was  a 
settled  policy  with  Tom  to  show  no  surprise  at  anything. 
Charles  found  it  convenient  to  forget  that  he  had  an  imperturb- 
able gardener,  and  put  this  parti-pris  down  to  Tom's  having  been 
forewarned  by  his  mistress's  coming  the  night  before. 

"  Didn't  expect  to  see  us  again  so  soon,  Tom,  eh  ?  "  was  ac- 
cepted by  Tom  as  a  sufficient  reason  for  not  enquiring  after 
that  lady.  Any.  satisfactory  reason  for  silence,  on  any  subject, 
was  welcome  to  him ;  and  Charles's  speech  could  only  mean  that 
his  wife  had  stopped  somewhere  on  the  way — at  her  mother's,  for 
instance.     Per  contra,  Tom's  demeanour  went  to  prove  that  she 

497 


498  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

had  already  arrived,  preparing  him  for  his  master's  advent,  later. 

On  which  account  Charles  felt  mightily  at  ease  as  he  walked 
up  to  the  house,  accompanied  by  Tom  bearing  his  valise.  For  it 
is  an  established  law  that  though  we  may  have  carried  our  own 
bag  from  Greenland's  icy  mountains,  or  across  Ararat,  it  shall  be 
snatched  from  us  at  the  dawn  of  a  domestic — ours  or  any  man's 
else — who  will  unpack  it  in  a  bedroom  forthwith  if  we  don't 
keep  a  tight  hand  on  the  key.  Tom  would  not  have  done  so,  but 
Anne  would,  who  met  them  at  the  door.  He  would  have  sur- 
rendered it  in,  silence,  and  fallen  back  on  his  wheelbarrow 
straightway,  but  that  the  blank  astonishment  of  Anne's  face  pro- 
voked him  to  say : — "  It's  the  master."  Had  he  been  loquacious, 
he  might  have  added : — "  Not  a  spectre,  though  you  seem  to 
think  so !  " 

Charles's  thoughts  were  inside  the  house  already,  where  he 
saw  Lucy,  in  anticipation;  so  he  could  not  stop  to  analyse  the 
expression  of  a  mere  souhrette.  He  walked  in  and  began  pick- 
ing up  unforwarded  letters.  Something  of  importance  might 
have  been  overlooked.  He  was  perfectly  convinced,  at  that  mo- 
ment, that  the  next  would  bring  him  Lucy. 

"  Would  you  wish,  Sir  .    .    .  ?  " 

"  Eh — what  ?     Stop  a  minute  !    .    .    .   Would  I  wish  what  ?  " 

"  Would  you  wish  .  .  .  Would  you  wish  ..."  Anne  was 
trying  to  discover  some  indirect  way  of  obtaining  a  light  on  the 
inexplicable.  She  ended  up : — "  Would  you  wish  your  room  got 
ready  ?  " 

"  Would  I  wish  my  room  got  ready  ?  "  Charles  left  the  ques- 
tion for  an  answer  as  soon  as  he  had  wondered  enough  why 
advertising  dentists  poured  out  their  hearts  so  much  for  his 
benefit.  Then  he  picked  it  up.  "  j\Iy  room  got  ready  ?  Of 
course  I  wish  my  room  got  ready.  Why  shouldn't  I  ?  "  He 
looked  up,  to  see  what  he  could  make  of  this  handmaiden,  and 
only  saw  that  she  seemed  at  a  loss.  But  why  ?  "  Is  your  mis- 
tress in  her  room  ?  "  then  said  Charles. 

Anne  faltered  out : — "  The  mistress  .  .  .  the  mistress  .  .  . 
is  not  here.  Sir !  "  And  her  voice  was  fraught  with  possibilities 
of  panic,  kept  in  check  by  domestic  obligation. 

"  But  she  is  here — she  must  be  here.  Tom ! — Torn !  "  He 
called  the  gardener,  who  still  remained  within  reach.  "  Didn't 
you  say  you  had  seen  Mrs.  Snaith  ?   .    .    .   Yes,  just  now !  " 

For  Tom,  taken  aback,  had  wavered.  His  reply  of  course  was 
an  explanation,  clear  enough.  He  had  merely  taken  Mrs.  Snaith 
for  granted,  as  a  probable  sequel. 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  499 

"Who  is  here,  then?  Is  Mrs.  Gorhambury  here?  Who  is 
that  going  upstairs  ?  "  Mrs.  Gorhambury  was  laid  up  with  lum- 
bago. That  was  the  young  lady.  What  young  lady?  Why— 
Mrs.  Gorhambury's  young  lady,  Miss  Fraser.  She  had  stopped 
on  from  yesterday.  Charles  very  nearly  said  :— "  Elbows,  I  sup- 
pose'' — but  stopped  in  time,  and  said  instead: — "Ask  her  to 
come  and  speak  to  me."  He  thought  that  the  sooner  he  went  to 
headquarters  for  information,  the  better. 

Anne  left  him  chafing,  and  went  upstairs.  Charles  was  at  no' 
loss  to  see  what  had  happened.  Mrs.  Gorhambury  had  one  of 
her  lumbago  attacks;  probably  had  written  to  Paris  to  say  so, 
only  of  course  they  couldn't  have  had  the  letter.  Elbows  had 
come  on  her  bike,  as  an  intermittent  visitor;  and,  finding  the 
nurse  helpless — one  knows  what  lumbago  can  do  when  it  tries— 
and  the  baby  practically  dependent  on  a  nursemaid  whom  its 
father  called  Tilly  Slowboy,  had  volunteered  a  rescue,  an-d  wired 
to  her  own  family  not  to  expect  her  till  they  saw  her.  It  was  all 
very  obvious,  and  really  that  girl  was  an  awfully  good-natured 
girl. 

She  would  come  directly;  so  Anne  reported.  Afterwards,  in 
telling  her  sister  the  tale  of  Charles's  unexpected  home-coming, 
she  averred  that  she  had  all  but  said  aloud :— "  What,  Nosey 
back  again !  "  but  had  got  the  whiphand  of  her  tongue  in  time. 
However,  when  she  made  her  appearance  a  moment  later,  she 
seemed  to  have  merged  her  first  surprise  at  his  appearance  in 
that  caused  by  his  coming  alone.  For  her  words  were : — "  But 
what  have  you  done  with  your  wife  ?  " 

Charles  rather  welcomed  the  opportunity  for  accounting  for 
Lucy's  absence  aloud.  The  sound  of  his  own  voice  gave  him 
courage  to  believe  her  all  safe,  only  delayed  by  some  accident. 
"  To  tell  you  the  truth,"  said  he,  concealing  his  uneasiness  osten- 
tatiously, "  I  rather  expected  to  find  her  here,  as  she  started 
before  I  did.  But  it  was  rather  fortunate  as  it  turned  out, 
because  she's  a  bad  sailor.  They  told  me  on  the  boat  that  in 
the  morning  the  sea  had  been  like  glass.  Has  it  been  stormy 
here?" 

Nancy  didn't  want  to  talk  about  the  weather.  She  wanted 
particulars  of  Lucy's  independent  journey  from  Paris.  How, 
why,  when,  and  where  had  she  and  her  husband  parted  company  ? 
Charles  caught  her  grave  and  curious  look  fixed  on  him,  and 
knew  what  it  meant.  But  it  seemed  to  him  that  his  ease  of  mind 
would  be  best  shov/n  by  an  entr'acte  about  the  lumbago  pa- 
tient.    "  Sorry  to  hear  this  about  Mrs.  Gorhambury,"  said  he. 


500  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

"  I  know  she  has  these  attacks.  She's  seen  the  doctor,  I 
suppose  ?  " 

"•  Oh  no !  No,  she  won't  see  doctors — says  if  Nantucket  Oil 
of  Green  Myrtles  doesn't  cure  her,  nothing  will.  .  .  .  When 
did  she  start  ? — Mrs.  Snaith,  I  niean." 

"  From  Paris  yesterday  morning — tidal  train  about  eight 
o'clock.  If  she  isn't  here  soon,  I  shall  ...  I  shall  begin  to 
wonder,"  he  made  a  poor  show  of  a  laugh  over  this,  and  his 
hands  were  restless,  a  sure  sign  of  uneasiness.  He  continued, 
somewhat  as  though  the  matter  might  be  discussed  seriously, 
without  prejudice  to  the  impossibility  of  "  anything "  having 
happened : — "  Of  course  I  should  be  very  uneasy  if  I  didn't  know 
she  might  have  stopped  the  night  at  Dover  .  .  •  Yes — that  was 
it,  no  doubt !  There's  a  Mrs.  Scroope  or  Scrope,  who  was  a 
friend  of  Lucy's  at  school — lives  near  Dover ;  Canterbury,  I  think. 
Nothing  more  likely  than  that  she  would  be  driving  over  to  Dover 
— seeing  someone  off  by  boat  as  like  as  not — and  just  caught 
Lucy  on  the  pier.  If  she  did  she  would  never  have  allowed  her 
to  come  on  to  London.  One  of  the  Fotheringay  Smith  girls  she 
was — know  'em  ?  " 

"  Me — no !  But  if  Mrs.  Snaith  had  gone  to  Canterbury, 
surely  she  would  have  written  to  say  so  ?  " 

"  Much  more  likely  that  she  should  have  written  and  the  letter 
miscarried,  than  that  anything  .  ,  .  should  have  happened. 
For  one  thing,  if  it  had,  we  should  have  heard  of  it  before  this." 
His  attention  was  caught  again  by  the  serious  look  in  Nancy's 
eyes — serious  enough  this  time  to  make  him  say: — "What  is  it 
you  are  afraid  of  ?  "  The  role  of  reassurance  did  him  good,  re- 
acted on  him.  When  you  are  apprehensive  of  evil,  nothing  does 
you  more  good  than  to  encourage  your  fellow-creatures. 

The  reply  was  : — "  Oh,  nothing — nothing !  She'll  take  care  of 
herself  all  right.  Not  go  near  the  edge  of  the  platform  and  so 
on.  ,  .  .  Now  let  me  tell  you  about  Mrs.  Gorhambury  and 
why  I'm  here." 

"  Yes,  I  want  to  hear  that.  .  .  .  Baby's  all  right,  I  sup- 
pose ?  " 

"  0  Lord  yes ! — I  should  rather  think  he  was.  .  .  .  Don't  go 
up  to  sec  him  for  a  minute  or  two.  Wien  he's  ready  to  receive, 
they'll  come  and  tell  us." 

"Who  will?  .  .  .  Oh,  Tilly  Slowboy,  of  course!  Now  tell 
me  about  Mrs.  Gorhambury."  He  settled  down  to  listen,  as  a 
hint  towards  an  armchair  opposite  for  the  young  lady.  She 
liked  the  window-seat,  farther  off,  and  would  be  very  comfort- 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  501 

able  there,  thank-you!  The  grouping  seemed  somehow  better 
form  to  her.  It  was  not  because  her  frank  face  looked  better 
against  the  light,  catching  its  stray  locks,  nimbus-wise,  that  she 
did  it;  but  from  a  superstition  about  the  fitness  of  things,  not 
easy  to  describe.  She  could  tell  Nosey  about  the  nurse's  collapse 
there,  just  as  well  as  in  that  big  chair,  like  a  visitor. 

It  seemed  that  Mrs.  Gorhambury  had  been  perfectly  well  till 
the  day  before,  when  Nancy,  who  was  a  frequent  worshipper  at 
the  shrine  of  her  admirer,  Charles  the  Third,  noticed  that  she 
appeared  to  move  stiffly ;  and,  in  reply  to  enquiries,  was  told  that 
it  was  only  a  slight  touch  of  lumbago,  and  would  go.  It  had 
not  gone,  but  had  got  worse,  showing  a  very  intransigeant  spirit. 
Nancy,  perceiving  that  this  meant  a  Eegency  of  Tilly  Slowboy, 
and  alive  to  her  limited  capacities,  had  done  precisely  what 
Charles  anticipated,  and  established  herself  as  Charles  the 
Third's  guardian  pro  tempore. 

"  And  what  does  that  young  man  think  of  the  turn-out  ?  "  said 
Charles. 

"  Baby  ? — oh,  he  sanctions  it,  but  treats  it  as  a  joke  contrived 
for  his  amusement.  I  think  as  he  grows  older  he'll  be  keenly 
alive  to  the  humorous  side  of  things.  I  took  him  in  just  now 
to  pay  a  visit  to  poor  Mrs.  Gorhambury,  who  I  assure  you  simply 
can't  move,  and  he  didn't  show  a  particle  of  sympathy — merely 
split  with  laughter." 

"  His  withers  are  unwrung,"  said  Charles,  not  affected  by  this 
tale  of  his  son's  selfishness.  Nancy,  not  catching  the  drift  of 
the  remark,  looked  unresponsive ;  whereupon  he  said : — "  Let  the 
galled  jade  wince,  don't  you  know !  "  A  quotation  which  she 
may  have  recognised  or  not;  it  did  not  appear -which.  For  she 
exclaimed : — "  There's  the  post.  Shall  I  go  ? "  and  went. 
Charles's  nerves  were  all  on  the  strain  to  know  if  a  letter  had 
come  from  Lucy.  His  masculine  dignity  must  be  maintained, 
and  he  made  a  parade  of  deliberation  in  following  her. 

He  met  her  coming  from  the  doorway,  reading  the  envelopes  of 
a  very  perceptible  postal  delivery.  Stupid,  irritating  girl ! — why 
could  she  not  give  them  to  him  ?  He  would  see  the  handwriting, 
at  once.  But  an  appeal  to  hasten  matters  would  have  looked  as 
if  he  was  anxious.  And  he  wasn't — mark  that ! — he  wasn't. 
"  Fetch  them  in  here,"  said  he,  to  prove  it.  "  Fetch  them  in 
here  and  look  at  them  on  the  table."  He  was  doing  his  duty  by 
masculine  dignity,  and  really  doing  it  very  well. 

Three  minutes  later,  he  was  examining  the  unopened  letters 
again  all  through,  and  Nancy  was  saying : — "  No — There's  noth- 


502  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

ino- !  "  She  was  convinced.  But  he  said : — "  Stop  a  minute ! 
Don't  let's  be  in  too  great  a  hurry ; "  and  went  slowly  through 
them,  looking  at  back  and  front.  Then  he  gave  it  up.  No — 
there  was  no  letter. 

He  walked  uneasily,  fitfully,  about  the  room ;  and  she  said  not 
a  word.  Pray  Heaven  that  an  uncanny  thought  that  had  crossed 
hor  mind  was  wrong !     That  would  be  too  horrible. 

He  had  stopped  opposite  the  window,  with  his  back  to  her, 
looking  aimlessly  out  on  Tom  at  work,  and  the  lawn.  Now  he 
turned  round  suddenly,  and  said : — "  No — I  don't  think  any- 
thing of  that.  Why  should  she  write,  unless  she  meant  to  stop 
on  at  Mrs.  Scroope  or  Scrope's?  It  only  means  that  she  will 
turn  up  presently.  And  a  nice  blowing  up  we  shall  get  for 
being  in  siich  a  stew  about  her!  .  .  .  Come  along  and  let's 
have  a  look  at  Master  Charles."  He  spoke  as  one  who  brushes 
away  a  perplexity  to  make  room  for  a  pleasant  thought.  She 
too  was  glad  of  a  diversion,  for  that  wandering  idea  that  had 
come  into  her  head  had  made  her  quite  uncomfortable. 

A  story  may  be  at  a  loss  to  account  for  the  thoughts  and 
actions  of  its  characters,  and  its  safest  line  may  be  to  simply 
tell  them,  and  leave  its  reader  to  analyse  and  understand  them 
as  best  he  may.  But  some  stories  have  a  certain  fussiness  of 
their  own,  that  will  be  always  probing  for  motives  and  impulses, 
for  the  sources  of  ideas  that  seem  to  spring  from  nowhere,  and 
the  blindness  to  others— gross  as  mountains,  open,  palpable, — in 
eyes  most  deeply  concerned  to  see  them.  This  story,  for  instance, 
would  fain  know  why  at  this  particular  moment  this  girl  Nancy 
Fraser  should  suddenly— for  the  first  time,  mind  you !— become 
alive  to  the  danger  of  a  reciprocal  passion,  fraught  with  tragic 
consequences,  between  this  good  honest  Nosey's  wife  and  his 
friend.  That  was  the  idea  that  flashed  into  her  head  and  made 
her  life  for  the  moment  a  misery,  inflicting  on  her  a  burden  she 
hated — secret  thought.  For  a  politic  concealment  of  any  kind 
was  a  thorn  in  the  flesh  to  her ;  or  a  thorn  in  the  mind — a  mental 
thorn.  And  she  could  not  petition  Nosey  for  the  wherewithal 
to  quash  this  thought. 

WOiat  a  let-off  it  would  be  if  Lucy  drove  up  to  the  door,  and 
her  voice  were  heard  again  in  the  house  as  it  was  only  a  month 
since !  How  welcome  would  be  the  sound  of  mutual  reproaches, 
each  one's  blame  for  the  other's  share  of  some  stupid  misunder- 
standing !  That  was  the  English  of  it,  and  as  for  what  the  mis- 
understanding was,  enquiry  into  that  would  be  simply  ridiculous. 
Besides,  it  was  no  concern  of  hers.     If  her  married  friends  had 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  503 

tiffs,  the  more  candid  they  were  about  them  the  better  for  her. 
Not  that  she  was  in  any  present  want  of  a  beacon  to  head  her 
off  the  shoals  of  matrimony.  So  long  as  the  opposite  sex  had 
the  good  sense  to  steer  clear  of  her,  she  could  handle  her  own 
helm  unassisted. 

But  Lucy  had  not  come  back,  yet ! 

So  a  look  at  Master  Charles  would  be  an  alleviation,  both  to 
his  father  and  herself.  "  Stop  half  a  minute  while  I  run  up- 
stairs and  see  that  his  Majesty  is  fit  to  receive,"  said  she. 
Charles  was  left  an  easy  prey  to  his  own  thoughts  for  a  meta- 
phorical half -minute  which  may  not  have  been  over  six  times 
as  long  as  a  clock  half-minute.  He  could  not  keep  them  at  bay, 
and  was  truly  glad  to  be  told  that  now  he  might  come  up,  please ! 

Master  Charles  was  an  alleviation.  He  was  evidently  pre- 
pared to  receive  a  visitor,  or  even  cavalry,  if  the  latter  were 
small  and  soft.  For  he  all  but  got  his  father's  head  in  chancery 
in  the  very  first  round;  indeed,  he  did,  only  a  certain  vagueness 
of  purpose  got  the  better  of  him,  and  made  him  release  it, 
throwing  it  away  with  an  apparent  anticipation  that  it  would 
go  through  space,  pointblank.  Then  he  attached  himself  to  a 
button  with  the  fixity  of  a  limpet,  and  made  awkward  attempts 
to  get  it  into  his  mouth.  His  attitude  towards  that  newfound 
oddity,  the  Universe,  seemed  to  be  identical  with  that  of  the 
boa-constrictor  towards  a  blanket;  who  would  like  it  all,  please, 
but  wants  a  corner  to  begin  upon. 

A  voice  which  was  evidently  that  of  a  nurse  on  her  back, 
behind  a  door  which  was  on  the  jar,  or  only  just  off  it,  wanted 
to  assert  itself,  but  was  handicapped  by  local  causes.  "  I'll  see 
what  Mrs.  Gorhambury  wants,"  said  Nancy.  "  I'll  risk  leaving 
him  with  you.     Back  in  a  minute !  " 

Tilly  Slowboy  stood  by,  in  case  of  emergency,  like  a  ship  near 
one  that  doubts  if  it  will  founder — can't  be  quite  sure — and 
Nancy  interviewed  Mrs.  Gorhambury,  and  came  back. 

"  Wants  to  know  when  Mrs.  Snaith  is  expected,"  said  she. 

"What  did  you  say  to  her?"  said  Charles,  holding  his  off- 
spring at  arm's  length,  who  seemed  to  enjoy  his  inability  to 
claw  his  father  by  the  hair  or  eyelid,  established  by  the  fact  that 
it  was  his  father's  arm's  length,  not  his  own. 

"  I  said  in  an  hour  or  so."  Nancy  thought  it  her  duty  to 
inspire  confidence.     Her  pretext  of  it  was  very  fair,  considering. 

"  In  the  course  of  the  afternoon,  anyhow !  "  His  pretext  was 
very  poor.  Then,  apparently  at  right  angles  to  the  line  of  argu- 
ment, he  said  abruptly: — "'  tMien  do  you  have  lunch?  " 


504  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

"  Not  till  one,  I  suppose.     Do  you  want  it  sooner  ?  " 

"  Oh  no  ! — rather  the  other  way.  She  will  scarcely  be  here  by 
one."  Then  he  saw  it  would  be  as  well  to  open  further  margins, 
as  one  cuts  the  leaves  of  a  book;  to  have  plenty  of  alternatives, 
ahead,  in  case  the  next  page  of  experience  should  leave  her  com- 
ing in  suspense.  "  I'm  not  sure,"  he  continued,  "  that  it 
wouldn't  be  safest,  on  the  whole,  to  keep  the  two  lunches  apart. 
If  she  arrives  just  before  lunch,  of  course  cook  can  bottle  up  a 
little  till  she's  ready.  But  if  she  comes  in  in  the  middle,  she'll 
get  it  cold  and  mossy." 

Nancy  saw  how  he  was  hedging  against  disappointment.  "  It 
isn't  cook,"  said  she.  '"  It's  Anne.  Cook's  not  back  yet  from 
her  holiday.  But  Anne  can  manage,  perfectly  well."  Charles 
was  rather  impressed  by  this  young  woman's  mastery  of  house- 
hold details.  She  went  on : — "  They  fed  me  up  here  yesterday. 
I  stopped  them  laying  the  table  for  me,  all  by  myself.  Of 
course  to-day  it's  dilferent." 

Said  Charles,  speaking  through  his  son's  fist,  which  was  partly 
down  his  throat : — "  We  needn't  be  ferociously  punctual.  Call 
it  half-past  one.  I've  a  sort  of  impression  she'll  be  here  about 
half-past  one."  He  was  really  feeling  a  kind  of  collateral  grati- 
tude for  this  third  place  at  table,  not  only  because  it  seemed  to 
give  substance  and  reality  to  the  prospect  of  his  wife's  return, 
but  because  he  wasn't  quite  sure  what  was  the  correct  attitude  for 
him  about  a  tete-d-tete  luncheon  with  a  young  lad3^  It  had  not 
occurred  to  the  young  lady  to  give  the  matter  a  thought. 

Her  whole  soul  was  fretting  under  that  calm  exterior,  at  that 
hideous  dream — Nancy  went  through  the  form  of  denouncing 
it  mentally  as  such — of  this  man's  wife  having  deserted  him  for 
his  friend.  Was  it  a  wonder  that  his  restless  anxiety  about  her, 
visible  through  his  courageous  mock-confidence  in  her  timely 
reappearance,  should  intensify  her  pity  for  him  when  the  blow 
fell?  Her  perception  of  the  fact  was  no  mere  guess — rather, 
it  was  the  result  of  a  number  of  iraperceptions,  no  one  alone  of 
which  had  power  to  open  her  eyes  to  the  truth,  but  which  had 
suddenly  combined  to  make  it  manifest.  The  legend  of  the 
mother's  worldliness  which  had  brought  about  the  marriage,  dis- 
missed when  she  first  heard  it  as  obvious  nonsense,  came  back 
now  as  a  powerful  auxiliary  to  a  suspicion,  whose  every  recur- 
rence was  more  vivid  than  the  last,  that  her  friend  Mrs.  Snaith's 
own  affection  for  her  lawful  husband  had  not  stood  the  test  of  a 
knowledge  of  his  friend's  passion  for  her.  She  certainly  had 
known  that  Lucy  was  no  stranger  to  Fred's  infatuation  about 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  505 

her,  but  then  it  was  a  long  step,  to  her  mind,  from  knowing  that 
a  fool  of  a  man  was  besotted  about  you,  to  readiness  to  do  despite 
and  wrong  to  an  affectionate  husband,  in  order  to  satisfy  his 
lawlessness.  In  fact,  she  had  been  so  convinced  of  Lucy's  indif- 
ference to  Fred — except  in  the  sense  of  compassion  for  this 
infatuation,  as  a  sort  of  disease — that  she  would  have  felt  it  an 
insult  to  her  friend  to  breathe  a  suggestion  to  the  contrary.  But 
now  that  a  number  of  half-forgotten  trifles  came  back  to  her 
memory,  in  a  seeming  conspiracy  to  put  the  most  sinister  con- 
struction on  this  outcome  of  the  couple's  holiday  in  Paris,  she 
felt  fairly  racked  to  know  more  of  its  real  causes.  Mr.  Snaith 
had  said  absolutely  nothing  to  account  for  their  premature 
return. 

And  he  withdrew  to  his  little  smoking-room — to  write  letters, 
he  alleged — without  saying  anything.  Master  Charles  en- 
deavoured to  detain  him,  but  was  overcome  by  numbers.  When 
half-past  one  came,  or  rather  twenty  minutes  to  two,  and  yet 
no  arrival  of  the  mistress,  the  scratch  cook,  embarrassed,  sent 
Tip  to  know  what  to  do.  Was  she  to  send  up  lunch,  or  have  it 
spoil?  Nancy,  thus  referred  to,  said  the  former,  and  the  gong 
was  sounded.  For  in  a  well-regulated  household,  even  though 
there  be  but  one  to  be  summoned  to  the  table,  and  he  is  already 
in  evidence,  any  trained  parlour-maiden  will  as  it  were  break 
loose  like  a  mad  drummer  until  the  wonder  is  that  anyone  within 
a  mile  stops  away. 

"  Bless  us  and  save  us !  "  said  Charles,  coming  from  his  letter- 
writing,  which  may  or  may  not  have  been  genuine.  "  You  don't 
mean  to  say  it's  half-past  one  already !  .  .  .  All  right ! — I'll  be 
down  in  a  minute."  Wlien  he  did  so  he  was  clearly  beginning 
to  show  distress.  For  he  considered  it  incumbent  on  him  to 
reassure  Nancy.  "  You  mustn't  think  anything  of  her  not 
coming  yet,"  he  said.  "  My  experience  is  that  people  who  are 
waited  for  never  come.  Like  the  watched  pot  that  never  boils. 
You'll  see,  that  we  shall  either  get  a  letter  by  this  next  post,  or 
she'll  come  in  and  blow  us  all  up  sky  high  for  expecting  her 
sooner.  That's  what  people  do."  He  gave  Nancy  a  selected 
cutlet  carefully,  and  then  himself  a  chance  one  in  a  hurry,  which 
he  seemed  to  think  could  take  care  of  itself  for  awhile,  for  he 
leaned  back  in  his  chair  and  went  on  talking.  "  Haven't  you 
noticed  how  unfeeling  one  is  about  folks  that  have  been  expect- 
ing one  every  minute  for  hours?  You  see^  one  has  such  first- 
hand information  about  one's  own  safety.  It  doesn't  the  least 
matter  how  good  one's  heart  is,  etcetera ;  one  always  behaves  like 


506  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

a  beast  to  one's  anxious  family.   ...   I  suppose  yours  under- 
stands about  you,  and  won't  fret  ?  " 

Nancy  treated  her  family  as  if  it  and  she  were  Lacedge- 
monians.  "  If  they  do  it's  their  own  lookout/'  she  said.  "  I 
told  them  not  to  expect  me  till  they  saw  me.  They're  used  to 
me,  by  now.^'  She  took  mashed  potato,  but  laid  down  her  knife 
and  fork.  "  I  won't  eat  my  lunch  unless  you  eat  yours,  Mr. 
Snaith.     That's  flat !  " 

"  That's  a  contradiction  in  terms,"  said  Charles.  "  Oh  yes — 
I'm  going  to  devour  my  lunch.  Why  shouldn't  I  ?  "  He  also 
took  potato,  and  picked  up  his  knife  and  fork. 

She  ignored  his  question,  but  said : — "  What's  a  '  contradiction 
in  terms  '  ?     Explain !  " 

"  Why — taking  potatoes  and  saying  you  won't  eat  your  lunch, 
in  the  same  breath  !  " 

"  Well — I  certainly  shan't !  So  now  you  know.  .  .  .  Take 
some  mushroom  catsup,  in  the  square  bottle,  and  pass  it  over 
to  me.   .    .    .   Yes — that's  it." 

"  Oh  yes ! — that's  what  I  was  looking  for."  But  this  was  a 
lie,  and  only  a  transparent  apology  for  the  speaker's  pause. 
However,  he  stood  committed  now  to  that  cutlet,  anxiety  or  no. 

Lunch  passed,  and  they  talked.  And  Nancy  hung  out  baits  or 
invitations  to  him  to  throw  some  light  on  the  story  of  his  abrupt 
return  home,  which  she  felt  they  were  conspiring  to  take  for 
granted.  And  still,  he  changed  the  conversation  whenever  it 
neared  explanation  point.  And  still  the  object  of  their  anxiety 
did  not  come — did  not  come ! 

A  postman's  knock  an  hour  after  brought  Charles  out  in  haste 
from  his  den,  to  which  he  had  retired.  Nancy,  from  the 
nursery,  Avas  scarcely  later.  "  Say  there's  a  letter ! "  said  she. 
But  he  said,  with  a  pretence  of  cool  non-disappointment  that 
she  found  painful  to  hear: — "I'm  afraid  I — can't,  this  time." 
He  returned  slowly  to  his  citadel,  reading  a  letter  of  slight  im- 
portance from  some  casual  of  none.  She  climbed  up,  equally 
slowly,  to  the  nursery.  She  found  the  contemplation  of  Master 
Charles,  in  a  sleep  just  distinguishable  from  waxwork  by  recol- 
lections of  his  bottle,  discernible  only  by  experienced  eyes,  a 
great  resource  and  consolation.  On  the  other  hand,  the  enquiries 
of  the  lumbago  patient  from  afar  were  perplexing.  Why  couldn't 
Mrs.  Gorhambury  have  a  little  tact,  and  help  to  accept  the  situa- 
tion as  the  true  and  perfect  image  of  what  one  expects,  nowadays, 
instead  of  asking  whenever  a  ring  or  a  cart  wheel  was  audible 
from  below : — "  Is  that  the  mistress  ?  "  and  saying  on  receipt  of 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  507 

a  negative : — "  There  now,  I  made  sure  it  was  her !  "  ?  But  it 
never  was ! 

Nancy  was  not  surprised  at  Mr.  Snaitli's  silence  about  the 
reasons  why  he  and  his  wife  had  parted  company  to  come  to 
London.  Nor  is  the  story,  when  it  bears  in  mind  how  very 
slight  had  been  her  intercommunion  with  him,  measured  against 
her  comparative  intimacy  with  Lucy.  She  would,  in  fact,  have 
felt  some  astonishment  if  he  had  considered  himself  bound  to 
explain  the  situation.  After  all,  she  was  to  him,  as  he  was  to 
her,  little  more  than  a  name.  And  neither  name,  when  used  in 
confidence  to  intimate  friends,  was  such  as  to  convey  to  an 
uninformed  bystander  an  idea  of  respect  or  reverence,  or  even 
affection;  which  may  subsist,  after  a  fashion,  without  either. 
Any  other  story  may  say  what  it  likes,  but  this  one  will  continue 
to  hold  that  the  names  of  "  Elbows  "  and  "  Nosev,"  which  either 
had  chosen  for  the  other,  could  never  have  suggested  themselves 
except  as — suppose  we  say? — semi-discompliments,  more  akin  to 
indifference  than  contempt.  Such  names  as  one  chooses  at 
random,  for  mere  discrimination  of  individuals,  are  apt  to  refer 
rather  to  defects  than  to  beauties  of  appearance.  Charles  had 
felt  more  than  once  that  "  Elbows  "  had  been  premature,  since 
so  marked  an  attachment  had  sprung  up  between  the  young  lady 
and  his  eldest  son,  and  liad  wished  it  could  be  reconsidered.  But 
to  her  he  continued  "  Nosey  "  pure  and  simple,  as  the  feature 
that  had  suggested  the  name  remained  in  evidence.  Until 
she  had  a  tete-a-tcte  luncheon  with  him,  a  couple  of  hours 
since,  he  really  had  been,  for  her,  the  merest  walking  gentle- 
man on  the  stage  of  life,  who  had  married  her  beautiful 
friend,  but  was  always  away  when  she  called,  and  didn't 
count. 

Surely  mam"  a  lady  who  reads  this  may  recall  some  such  in- 
timacy with  a  friend,  who  had  a  thing  called  a  husband,  a  sort 
of  tame  cat  or  rabbit,  a  mascot  attached  to  the  house,  who  only 
came  in  for  a  minute  and  said  how  did  she  do;  and  wanted  to 
know  where  the  paper-knife  was,  or  the  hammer,  and  had  better 
ask  Jane.  Charles's  identity,  so  far,  had  run  on  those  lines,  for 
Nancy  Eraser. 

So  she  took  his  incommunicativeness  as  a  matter  of  course, 
and  would  have  been  rather  embarrassed  than  otherwise  if  he 
had  plunged  into  an  explanation.  This  did  not  the  least  inter- 
fere with  a  growing  curiosity  as  to  what  that  explanation  might 
be.  It  grew  continually,  fostered  by  a  hope  that  an  l-daircisse- 
ment  might  dissipate  that  ugly  suspicion,  that  would  come  back 


508  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

and  back,  clouding  her  mind  against  her  will,  constantly  fought 
against  and  rejected  on  its  supposed  merits,  in  vain. 

Why  should  this  suspicion  thrust  aside  anxiety  about  Lucy's 
safety  as  a  traveller — ordinary  safety?  Somehow  or  other,  mis- 
givings  about  security  of  sea  and  land  carriage  found  very  little 
place  in  Nancy's  mind.  For  one  thing,  news  about  accident  to 
life  and  limb  on  frequented  routes  travels  quick — could  only  have 
been  delayed  in  this  case  by  difficulty  of  identification,  a  most 
unlikely  thing.  For  another,  Nancy's  own  experience  had 
taught  her  that  even  a  fairly  comely  woman  traveller  may  rely 
on  a  sort  of  universal  aegis  of  protection  from  railway  guards, 
captains  of  Channel  steamers,  and  so  forth.  How  intensely  secure 
good  looks — real  beauty — must  make  one  on  a  journey ! 

It  was  this  thought  that  made  Nancy  say  to  Charles,  later  that 
afternoon : — "  You  need  not  be  the  least  afraid  that  anything 
had  happened  to  her,"  with  a  stress  to  show  the  kind  of  happen- 
ing referred  to.  This  was  in  Master  Charles's  nursery,  where 
his  father  had  been  invited — by  him,  it  was  alleged  unground- 
edly — to  take  afternoon  tea.  His  own  tea  went  on  all  day,  more 
or  less,  and  had  no  real  tea  in  it,  only  milk. 

"  Oh  no — of  course  not — of  course  not !  "  Charles  brushed 
the  idea  aside.  "  We  should  have  had  news  of  anything  of  that 
sort  long  ago."  He  was  impatient  of  hysterical  fancies.  But 
he  volunteered  no  substitute  for  them — made  no  new  conjecture 
to  account  for  this  long  delay.  He  drank  his  tea  in  silence, 
and  watched  his  son's  method  of  dealing  with  offerings  from  his 
admirers. 

"  He  does  take  hold  of  anything  that's  small  enough  for  his 
hands,"  Nancy  explained.  "  But  of  course  a  balloon  like  this  is 
ridiculous.  You  see,  he  bangs  it  away.  The  worst  of  it  is,  that 
he  shows  temper  if  it  isn't  offered  to  him  again  immediately.  I 
assure  you  he  flies  quite  into  a  violent  passion  sometimes,  when 
he  doesn't  get  everything  exactfy  to  his  liking." 

"  Take  the  balloon  away  and  let's  see,"  said  his  father,  rashly. 

"  It's  sinful  to  tantalize  the  darling,"  said  Nancy.  "  But 
just  this  once,  to  show  what  a  spirited  precious  he  is ! "  A 
creditable  effort  of  ]\Iaster  Charles  to  embrace  the  balloon,  with 
a  view  to  ultimately  sAvallowing  it,  missed  fire,  and  supplied  an 
opportunity  for  putting  it  out  of  sight.  He  appeared  for  a 
moment  dazed  and  bewildered,  as  though  he  found  its  disap- 
pearance difficult  of  belief;  then  burst  into  lamentations,  at  the 
same  time  becoming  crumpled  with  rage  and  despair.  Nancy 
did  not  venture  on  contention;  it  would  have  been  useless.     She 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  509 

even  had  the  disingenuousness  to  suggest  that  malignants,  whom 
she  spoke  of  as  "  they/'  were  at  the  bottom  of  the  balloon's 
disappearance  and  that  she  herself  was  a  benevolent  agency  that 
had  frustrated  their  nefarious  operations.  "  Did  they,  then  ?  " 
she  asked.  "  Did  naughty  wicked  people  come  and  carry  away 
his  balloon  ?  "  But  he  wouldn't  give  it  up  to  any  such  maraud- 
ing tribes,  especially  if  he  could  get  his  arms  round  it.  That  at 
least  was  Nancy's  conviction,  as  she  calmed  the  troubled  waters. 
A  heavenly  peace  irradiated  Master  Charles's .  countenance,  in 
a  tenth  of  a  second  or  perhaps  less.  A  baby's  sudden  transition 
from  infuriation  to  benignity  is  one  of  the  most  consolatory 
events  in  jSTature. 

"  I  think  I  had  better  stop  on  to  dinner  here,"  said  Charles 
the  father,  taking  a  second  cup  of  tea,  "  in  case  she  arrives  in 
time.  She's  much  more  likely  to  be  late,  wherever  she's  stopped 
by  the  way."  This  fiction  of  a  halt  e?i  route  had  found  a  good 
deal  of  favour.  It  was  plausible  enough  as  a  working  theory; 
one  to  sustain  hope  on.  He  continued,  rather  as  one  who  for- 
mulates a  programme  than  announces  a  complete  one : — "  I  shall 
go  back  to  town  to-night,  to  sleep  at  my  chambers,  if  she  doesn't 
turn  up." 

"  Most  likely  she  will,"  said  Nancy.  She  only  said  it  because 
she  thought  he  deserved  a  little  help  and  encouragement. 

"  I  sent  a  card  to  Mrs.  Gam  to  have  the  place  ready,  in  case 
I  came." 

"  Just  as  well  to  be  on  the  safe  side ! "  said  Nancy,  meaning- 
lessly.  There  was  no  earthly  need,  that  she  could  see,  for  him 
to  go  away  to  his  chambers,  whether  his  wife  arrived  or  not. 
Mere  restlessness ! 

And  he  seemed  to  think  that  explanation  was  called  for.  For 
he  said : — "  You  see,  the  chances  are  that  if  I  go  there  to-night 
I  shall  find  a  letter  that  wants  an  answer.  Some  correspondence 
seems  to  have  been  going  astray."  This  was  vague  and  unsatis- 
factory, so  he  continued — inventing  as  he  went,  Nancy  thought. 
"  If  she  doesn't  come  to-night  I  shall  only  have  lost  a  post,  for 
nothing.  And  if  she  does — come  after  I'm  gone — not  very 
likely ! — you'll  send  me  a  wire,  won't  you  ?  " 

"  Of  course.     First  thing  in  the  morning !  " 

"  Just  so.  And  then  I  can  come  back  here  at  once,  to  talk 
over  arrangements.  The  chances  are  she'll  vote  for  going 
straight  out  to  the  Tyrol,  without  stopping  at  all.  She  takes 
rather  kindly  to  travelling." 

All  this  of  course  was  manufactured,  as  Nancy  saw— full  of 

33 


510  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

weak  points.  But  Charles  had  a  reason  for  sleeping  at  the  dig- 
gings, which  he  could  not  well  speak  about  to  her.  If  he  decided 
to  remain  the  night  at  The  Cedars,  might  not  Nancy  herself 
decide  on  blowing  up  her  tyres  and  speeding  back  to  her  own 
home  ?  "\Miat  need  for  her  to  mount  guard  over  blaster  Charles 
with  his  father  in  the  house,  were  his  nurse's  lumbago  ever  so 
bad?  Moreover,  a  sub-murmur  in  his  mind  kept  on  hinting  that 
the  young  woman  might  have  ideas  .  .  .  ideas  about  the  posi- 
tion, don't  you  see?  .  .  .  connected  with  the  gentleman's  wife 
not  being  there,  don't  you  know.  That  sort  of  thing.  Some 
young  w^omen  were  particular. 

Charles  had  wTitten  letters  during  his  retirement  in  the  morn- 
ing, and  one  was  to  his  august  mother-in-law,  that  she  might 
have  the  opportunity  of  sharing  his  anxiety  about  her  daughter 
if  she  was  so  disposed.  "  Not  that  she  cares  a  damn !  "  said  he 
as  he  fastened  the  envelope.  Tliis  letter  reached  her  as  she 
awaited  a  tea-visitor  in  the  afternoon.  As  soon  as  she  had  satis- 
fied herself  about  her  figured  silk's  skirt-disposition  in  her 
armchair,  she  opened  her  letters  and  condemned  one  or  two,  as 
uninteresting,  to  a  later  inspection;  then  came  to  her  son-in- 
law's.  His  was  less  so,  but  she  could  not  find  a  distance  at 
which  it  was  easily  legible,  without  her  double  eyeglass.  So  she 
fished  out  the  latter  from  somewhere  under  her  chin,  and  held 
out  her  nose  for  it. 

"■'  Don't  get  up  because  of  me,  dear !  "  said  her  visitor,  coming 
in  unheralded.  Mrs.  Bannister  Stair  scarcely  needed  a  pre- 
cursor.    "  Letters,  I  see !  " 

Mrs.  Hinchlift'e's  attention  seemed  riveted,  for  the  moment. 
The  other  lady  waited  patiently,  for  that  moment,  and  for  one 
or  two  more.  Then  the  letter-reader  turned  the  last  page 
smartly,  and  read  it  too  quickly.  Then  she  said  deprecat- 
ingly : — ''  Half  a  minute,  dear ! "  and  went  back  a  page. 
Then : — "  Yes.  Eather  odd,  too !  "  and  dismissed  her  preoc- 
cupation to  kiss  her  friend  efEusively,  who  threw  out  suggestions 
in  favour  of  enlightenment.  Whereupon  Mrs.  HinchlifEe  de- 
clared that  it  really  was  nothing.  This  declaration  she  weak- 
ened, however,  by  saying  a  second  time : — "  Eather  odd, 
too!" 

''  A  mystery !  "  said  Mrs.  Bannister  Stair.    But  she  could  wait. 

"  No — no  mystery !  Only  that  absurd  girl  of  mine  .  .  . 
Yes — tea,  Unwin,  and  if  anyone  else  comes,  I'm  not  at  home. 
.    ,    .   That  absurd  girl  of  mine " — Mrs.   Stair  waited,  exem- 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  511 

plarily — "  came  away  from    Paris  by  herself  and  hasn't  been 
heard  of  since !  " 

"  Well,  but— that's  very  odd !  " 

"Just  what  I  was  saying,  dear!  Very  odd.  That  husband 
of  hers  " — the  lady  spoke  as  if  her  daughter  had  married  a  regi- 
ment and  this  was  a  subaltern — "  turned  up  last  night  to  look 
for  her  here,  and  of  course  didn't  find-her.  Xow  he's  gone  down 
to  Wimbledon  and  she  isn't  there  either.  Here's  his  letter ! " 
She  didn't  give  it  up,  but  read : — " '  Got  here  an  hour  since,  but 
no  sign  of  Lucy — so  far.  I  don't  think  we  need  be  the  least 
uneasy.  For  one  thing  she  may  have  stopped  by  the  way — 
nothing  more  likely — she  has  friends  not  so  very  far  from  Dover 
— parties  named  Scroope  or  Scrope — she  knew  the  she-one  at 
school  at  Canterbury,  I  think.  I  shall  probably  get  a  letter  in  an 
hour's  time,  to  say.  I'm  sending  this  off  to  catch  the  post.  If 
she  comes  to  you  to-day,  as  may  happen,  make  her  wire.  I  know 
I'm  fidgety — it's  the  nature  of  the  animal ! '  Yes,  he's  a  dread- 
ful fidget."  She  dropped  the  letter  on  her  expensive  silk,  and 
resigned  herself  to  reminiscence : — "  I  don't  believe  Lucy  had 
any  friends  at  Canterbury — Can't  think  who  he  can  mean ! 
Scroope  or  Scrope — Scroope,  or  Scrope !  Let's  see — didn't 
Emily  Fotheringay  Smith  marry  a  Scroope  or  Scrope,  and  go 
to  New  Zealand  ?  '' 

"  Of  course  she  did.  And  he's  mixed  Canterbury  in  Xew 
Zealand  with  Canterbury-Cathedral  Canterbury,  in  England. 
That  accounts  for  it.     Canterbury  Lamb,  don't  you  know?  " 

"  Oh  dear  yes — Canterbury  Lamb  of  course !  How  people  do 
mix  things  up !  " 

"  But  what  can  have  kept  Mrs.  Snaith  ? "  Mrs.  Stair  was 
interested.  Apart  from  personal  acquaintance,  any  beautiful 
young  married  lady  was  an  object  of  interest.  The  disappear- 
ance of  a  dowdy  single  one  would  not  have  roused  her  curiosity 
half  so  much.  She  would  not  have  given  a  second  thought  to 
a  really  plain  sample  over  thirty.  "  Nothing  can  have  happened 
to  her  ?  "     This  with  rather  a  subdued  manner. 

"  Oh  dear  no !  I'm  not  the  least  uneasy  about  her."  The 
suggestion  made  the  speaker  quite  short  and  irritable.  "  She's 
not  a  chicken."  The  word  "''  chicken  "  was  a  good  one  to  snap 
with,  and  Mrs.  Hinchliffe  used  it  for  that  purpose.  But  she 
softened  down  to  say : — "  What  do  you  suppose  could  have  hap- 
pened ?  " 

"  Simply  nothing  whatever.  Dear  me  1 — as  if  I  didn't  know 
what  travellinc^  alone  was.     Why — I  went  to  Calcutta  all  by  my- 


512  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

self  when  1  was  eighteen,  and  never  was  more  protected  in  my 
life.  One  is,  on  hoats  and  in  trains.  And  I  hadn't  a  tenth  part 
of  your  Lucy's  looks." 

"  Exactly  my  way  of  looking  at  it.  Anyhow,  I  am  not  going 
to  get  in  a  fuss  because  Lucy  and  her  husband  choose  to  have  a 
tiff  and  come  home  separately.  I've  no  doubt  he  was  in  the 
wrong,  with  that  nose." 

Mrs.  Stair's  look  said,  "  Aha !  "  But  only  for  a  fraction  of  a 
second.  Her  well-restrained  remark  was : — "  Dear  me ! — those 
two.  Fancy  their  quarrelling!  I  never  should  have  suspected 
it." 

"  I  don't  mean  seriously  quarrelling,  Adela.  How  silly  you 
are !     I  said  tiff." 

"  Well — tiff !  Tiff  enough  to  make  them  part  company,  and 
travel  separately." 

"  I  tell  you  I  don't  think  anything  of  that.  Some  say  the 
less  married  people  see  of  one  another  the  better.  They  see 
too  much  of  each  other,  in  my  opinion,  at  The  Cedars." 

"  My  dear  Zoe,  you  give  me  courage  to  say  something." 

"  Well— say  it !'" 

"  That  Mr.  Snaith  has  it  in  him — mind,  I  am  ready  to  give 
him  the  credit  of  every  possible  virtue — but  he  has  it  in  him 
to  become  a  bore." 

"  My  daughter  has  not  complained  of  him.  What  makes  you 
think  so  ?  " 

]\Irs.  Stair  was  settling  down  for  a  chat  in  the  opposite  arm- 
chair. In  time  she  was  ready  to  pick  up  the  thread  of  the 
conversation.  "  ^^^lat  makes  me  think  so?"  said  she.  "Well 
— perhaps  I  don't  exactly  know,  myself." 

"  Something  must  have  put  the  idea  into  your  head." 

"  Ye-es — something!  But  ought  I  to  say?  However,  we 
really  are  such  very  old  friends   ..." 

"  Please  don't  have  a  nonsensical  fit,  Adela,  but  say  what 
you've  got  to  say." 

"  It  isn't  much  from  any  knowledge  I  myself  have  of  your 
son-in-law.  You  know  how  little  I  know  him  personally. 
Eeally  the  idea  is  founded  entirely  on  what  I  noticed  that  Sun- 
day.   I'm  almost  sorry  I  mentioned  it." 

"  Oh— don't  tell  me  if  you  doti't  like." 

But  that  was  not  what  Mrs.  Stair  wanted.  None  of  that, 
please !  She  jerked  the  topic  back  into  its  groove.  "  The  idea, 
Zoe  dear, — with  you !  "  Then  she  went  on  quickly,  to  block  any 
other  form  of  ref'usal  to  hear : — "  It  was  suggested  to  me  entirely 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  513 

by  the  animated  pleasure  Lucy  seemed  to  me  to  find  in  the 
society  of   ...   in  short,  of  other  gentlemen." 

"  What  other  gentlemen  ?  I  knew  you  ^vere  going  to  say  some- 
thing of  that  sort,  Adela." 

But  Adela  was  shocked  at  her  dear  Zoe's  suggestion  that  what 
she  had  said  was  of  any  sort  whatever.  If  it  came  into  any 
category  at  all,  it  was  one  that  was  distinguished  by  the  lamblike 
innocence  of  everything  it  described.  As  to  imputing  anything 
to  dearest  Lucy,  nothing  could  have  been  further  from  her  inten- 
tions.    Was  it  likely? 

Mrs.  Hinchliffe  seemed  to  think  that  on  the  whole  perhaps  it 
was.     "  Who  was  the  other  gentleman  ?  "  said  she,  doggedly. 

"  I  may  as  well  be  candid.   ..." 

"  Better,  I  think  !  " 

"  Well — there  ivas  no  one  there  except  old  What's-his-name  and 
the  scribbler,  and  they  don't  count.  And  the  man  I  mean — the 
handsome  young  man,  of  course." 

"  Why,  of  course  ?  Mr.  Carteret  is  my  son-in-law's  oldest  and 
most  intimate  friend.     And  the  idea  of  a  flirtation   ..." 

"  My  dear  Zoe !     I  never  used  the  word  '  flirtation.'  " 

"  No — but  you  meant  it."  As  the  lady  had  meant  it,  or  had 
meant  to  mean  it  a  little  later,  her  voucher,  which  she  now  made, 
that  nothing  could  have  been  further  from  her  intentions,  had 
not  the  full  force  which  it  might  have  had. 

Now,  the  curious  part  of  this  colloquy  was,  that  it  did  not 
lead  to  strained  relations.  On  the  contrary,  the  fact  that  it 
seemed  to  land  its  subject  within  reach  of  candid  discussion, 
seemed  to  be  a  source  of  satisfaction  to  both  parties.  Once 
launched  on  an  interchange  of  ideas  not  so  embarrassingly  pure 
that  even  flirtation  was  not  to  be  spoken  of,  the  transition  was 
easy  to  a  daring  consideration  of  the  eventualities  of  a  dull  hus- 
band, a  beautiful  wife,  and  a  susceptible  friend.  But  the  points 
raised  could  only  be  ventilated  under  a  continual  reservation, 
that  nothing  therein  could  possibly  apply  to  any  blood  relations 
— not  of  the  speakers  but — of  the  persons  spoken  to.  For  Mrs. 
Hinchliffe  had  not  the  same  need,  presumably,  of  such  reserva- 
tions on  her  own  behalf,  and  was  not  the  maker  of  them. 

Thus  it  was  that  Mrs.  Stair,  longing  for  information  of  Fred 
Carteret's  whereabouts,  and  suspecting  that  he  was  in  Paris,  felt 
bound  to  give  absolution,  anticipamente  as  the  Italians  say,  to 
Mrs.  Snaith  for  happening  to  be  there  at  the  same  time.  She 
got  it  done  somehow,  however;  and  not  only  that,  but  managed 
an  enquiry  about  Fred  in  so  unconcerned  a  way  that  her  friend. 


514 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 


whatever  she  supposed  to  be  its  motive,  was  able  to  reply : — 
"  He's  somewhere  abroad,  I  believe,  but  not  in  Paris,"  casually 
enough  to  dissociate  him  from  her  daughter  in  that  capital. 

^Miether  Mrs.  Stair  accepted  her  words  does  not  appear,  but 
she  appeared  to  breathe  freer,  rather  offensively,  on  hearing  that 
Fred,  though  perhaps  abroad,  was  not  known  to  be  in  Paris. 


CHAPTER  XXXIII 

Dinner  time  had  nearly  come  at  The  Cedars.  But  there  was 
no  sign  of  its  mistress.  W\\i\t  was  Xaney  Fraser  to  say  to  that 
poor  man,  its  master,  who  had  gone  for  a  long  walk,  when  he 
came  hack  and  she  had  to  report  his  wife's  non-arrival? 

What  a  godsend  it  would  be — just  think  of  it ! — if  she  were  to 
arrive  now,  just  before  his  return ! 

No  letter  had  come  by  the  postal  delivery  just  after  he  started 
on  his  walk.  She  had  examined  the  envelopes,  but  there  was 
no  handwriting  bearing  the  faintest  resemblance  to  Lucy's.  A 
diseased  optimism  made  her  say  to  herself  that  this  was  rather 
good  than  bad.  If  she  was  on  her  way — arriving  in  an  hour  or 
so — a  letter  arriving  no  sooner  than  this  would  have  been  a  super- 
fluity. She  never  would  have  written  such  a  letter.  Therefore, 
she  would  probably  arrive  in  an  hour  or  so.  Clearly.  It  was  a 
handy  sophism  to  live  upon,  during  that  hour  or  so.  But  now, 
the  fact  was  staring  her  in  the  face,  that  the  time  had  lapsed, 
and  Lucy  had  not  come. 

Still,  the  sophism  might  last  through  dinner,  and  eat  Xosey 
must.  Nancy  could  not  have  him  on  her  hands  starving  himself 
from  anxiety.  That  was  the  way  her  inner  consciousness  put  it, 
although  she  was  aware  she- was  the  merest  accident  in  the  house. 

So,  when  she  heard  Charles's  key  in  the  front  door,  followed 
by  his  step  in  the  passage,  she  ran  downstairs  from  the  nursery, 
leaving  Tilly  Slowboy  to  convince  Master  Charles  that  he  ought 
to  go  to  sleep,  and  found  his  father  hunting  in  those  letters  for 
the  handwriting  he  longed  to  see.  "  Nothing  has  come,"  said 
she,  with  an  equanimity  too  marked  to  be  of  any  value.  "  But  I 
don't  think  that  implies  anything.  Why  should  she  have  written 
when  she's  coming  herself  ?  "  And  Charles  said  : — '"  That's 
what  it  is,  no  doubt.  ...  I  shan't  be  long.  I  had  no  idea  it 
was  so  late." 

He  had  stuck  to  his  colours  manfully  through  dinner.  That 
is  to  say,  he  had  held  on,  with  the  courage  of  despair,  to  the 
transparent  pretext  that  all  was  normal — that  nothing  unusual 
was  happening  or  would  happen.  He  had  eaten,  or  seemed  to 
eat ;  and  she,  who  was  also  somewhat  of  a  pretender,  had  accepted 

515 


516  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

this  seeming  as  a  reality.  Very  little  was  said  to  show  how  either 
was  on  the  watch  for  an  arrival — an  arrival  and  an  explanation. 
They  had  so  far  recognised  the  facts  that  had  to  be  faced  as  to 
have  decided  silently,  by  mutual  agreement,  that  it  was  better  to 
talk  of  something  else.     And  they  had  talked  of  something  else. 

Charles,  as  soon  as  a  rather  scratch  meal  was  dying  away  in 
a  very  scratch  dessert,  had  made  boldly  for  fresh  fields  and  pas- 
tures new.  "  Let  me  see !  "  said  he,  "  your  sister  married  Pro- 
fessor Saxon,  didn't  she  ?  " 

"  Not  Saxon — Lomax.  He's  a  Public  Analyst,  if  you're  any 
the  wiser  for  that." 

"  Not  sure  that  I  am,  much !  I  did  know  a  chap  though  once 
who  did  that  sort  of  thing,  only  he  got  the  sack." 

"What  for?" 

"  For  analysing  wrong.  Or  for  getting  detected,  I  don't  know 
which."  Charles  told  the  tale  of  this  misadventure  in  full.  His 
friend  had  "  detected  "  twent3'-eight  per  cent  of  soluble  lead  in 
a  potter's  glaze-tub,  and  the  potter  swore  that  he  and  his  an- 
cestors had  brewed  that  glaze  for  two  hundred  years  and  knew 
perfectly  what  it  was  made  of,  and  that  the  analyst  was  an 
impostor.  By  agreement  the  decision  on  the  point  was  referred 
to  a  great  German  chemist — who,  being  German,  was  sure  to 
be  right.  But  he,  being  naturally  inclined  to  side  with  any 
official,  anywhere,  proceeded  to  "  detect "  thirty-three  per  cent 
of  soluble  lead  in  that  glaze.  It  was  a  case  of  trop  de  zele — that 
was  all ! 

"  I  believe,"  said  Charles  in  conclusion,  "  that  my  poor  friend 
got  the  sack  for  not  "  detecting "  more  while  he  was  about  it. 
What  does  Professor  Lomax  analyse  ?  " 

Nancy,  who  had  only  half  followed  this  tale — which  indeed 
travelled  outside  her  record — replied : — "  Anything  that  comes 
handy,  I  believe;  suicides'  insides — anything  of  that  sort.  He 
detects  arsenic  in  large  or  small  quantities.  They  live  at  Brix- 
ton and  I  see  them  every  Sunday.     He's  not  a  bad  chap." 

The  scratch  dessert  had  remained  unappreciated  by  its  pro- 
posed consumers,  and  Charles  was  by  this  time  dallying  with 
his  pipe,  with  a  view  to  permission  to  smoke  then  and  there.  He 
left  the  Professor  a  moment  to  say : — "  May  I  smoke  ?  "  and 
having  received  Nancy's  reply,  that  she  could  go  away  if  she 
didn't  like  it,  returned  to  him  with  a  divided  attention — divided 
between  him  and  ignition.  "  I  say,  Miss  Fraser,"  said  he,  being 
fairly  alight,  "  speaking  of  Professor  Jackson — Saxon — no,  beg 
V,  your  pardon ! — Lomax  .    .    . " 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  517 

"Speaking  of  him,  what?" 

"  Well — he  put  it  into  my  head  to  ask  you.  But  perhaps  I 
oughtn't?" 

Nancy  considered.  "  Depends  so  very  much  on  what  it  is," 
said  she.  "  But  whatever  it  is,  if  you  didn't  mean  to  ask  it, 
you  shouldn't  have  mentioned  it.  Ask  away !  "  She  was  not 
quite  free  from  misgiving  that  this  question  might  be  unwel- 
come. 

Charles  also  considered.  His  consideration  ended  with  a  nod 
of  general  assent,  and  then  he  went  straight  to  the  point. 
"  What  made  your  sister  chuck  Fred  Carteret?     If  you  know!  " 

Nancy  flushed  visibly — was  evidently  uncomfortable.  Her 
misgiving  was  justified.  "  I  know,"  she  said,  "  perfectly  well. 
Cit  told  me.  But  she  didn't  mean  me  to  tell  you  or  anybody." 
If  she  had  stopped  there  he  would  have  enquired  no  further. 
But  she  must  needs  add,  with  a  superfluous  candour : — "  Espe- 
cially you."  To  think  anything,  and  not  speak  it,  was  to  her 
an  artificial  effort. 

Had  a  thought  of  her  meaning  been  possible  to  him,  he  would 
have  been  at  once  on  the  track  of  it.  But  the  consciousness  of 
any  kind  of  complicity  in  the  miscarriage  of  Fred's  love-affair 
was  so  remote,  that  he  was  merely  puzzled;  indeed,  was  inclined 
to  think  he  had  mis-heard  her  words  somehow.  He  merely  said, 
apologetically : — "  Of  course  I  have  no  right  to  ask,"  and  with- 
drew from  his  enquiry,  checking  curiosity  about  the  meaning 
of  the  last  two  words.  His  nearest  guess  connected  it  with  his 
intimacy  with  Fred,  which  this  girl  must  know  all  about — no 
doubt  of  that !  If  Fred  was  held  to  blame  in  her  family,  was 
it  likely  she  would  advertise  their  indictment  to  his  brother? 

He  forgot  the  whole  thing  a  moment  later.  For  just  as  Nancy, 
anxious  to  avoid  further  catechism,  rose  saying  that  perhaps  she 
had  better  see  that  Mrs.  Gorhambury  was  going  on  all  right,  the 
post  was  audible  on  the  garden-pathway,  followed  by  convulsions 
in  the  letter-box.    Oh,  if  that  were  only  a  letter — at  last ! 

Charles  was  no  longer  keeping  up  the  farce  of  disguising  his 
anxiety.  He  sprang  up  and  was  out  of  the  room  in  an  instant. 
The  postman's  knock  came  after  his  exit.  She  did  not  go  up- 
stairs, but  waited,  hoping  with  very  little  hope.  For  that  grisly 
idea  that  had  tormented  her  before  was  with  her  still,  cropping 
up  at  unexpected  moments,  connecting  itself  undefinedly,  but 
more  and  more  persistently,  with  this  seeming  disappearance  of 
Lucy.  If  only  she  could  muster  the  courage  to  make  Nosey  tell 
her  why  he  and  his  wife  left  Paris  separately ! 


518  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

There  was  no  letter,  and  Charles's  blank  look  was  painful  to 
see.  She  could  find  no  foundation  for  a  spurious  hope;  so  she 
said  nothing.  What  could  she  have  said,  that  would  not  have 
resembled  cheering  him  up,  and  giving  him  courage  and  so 
forth — about  the  most  depressing  attitude  possible  under  cir- 
cumstances calling  for  fortitude?  \Yho  does  not  break  down,  or 
burst  into  tears,  under  consolation? 

She  went  upstairs,  and  he  turned  to  go  into  the  little  smoking- 
room,  without  a  word.  He  felt  the  germs  of  panic  about  his 
wife's  safety  growing  in  his  mind,  and  knew  he  had  to  keep 
cool.  Well,  then — accepting  that  obligation,  what  was  the  next 
step  to  be? 

The  time-honoured  course  in  all  such  cases — go  to  the  police? 
Was  that  the  onl}-  resource  ?  See  how  utterly  at  a  loss  they  were 
when  Fred's  uncle,  old  Carteret — poor  old  Stultifex  Maximus — • 
vanished  so  strangely  two  years  ago.  Besides,  he  shrank  from 
catechism  about  recent  events.  His  imagination  created  a  speech 
Manton  would  most  likely  make.  "  You'll  excuse  me,  Mr. 
Snaith,  but  we  are  obliged  to  ask  these  questions.  Had  there 
been  Avhat  we  call  words  between  you?  "  Could  he  say  no?  .  .  . 
Tush ! — what  rubbish ! — to  allow  mere  diseased  terrors  to  get 
possession  of  him  like  that ! 

A  tap  came  at  the  door.  Oh — Miss  Fraser — yes,  come  in! 
Nothing  the  matter  ?  Babv  all  right  ?  Oh  dear  yes ! — babv  was 
all  right.  But  Xaney  had  something  to  say,  something  fraught 
with  an  earnestness  that  could  for  the  moment  supersede  even 
baby. 

"  I've  come  down  to  see  what  you  intend  to  do,  Mr.  Snaith  ?  " 
Then  as  if  to  add : — "  I  know  that  is  a  question  you  cannot 
answer  offhand,"  she  took  a  seat. 

It  was  an  opportunity  not  to  be  lost  for  Charles  to  show  that 
he  was  not  the  least  alarmed.  "  You  mean,"  said  he,  "  what  I 
should  do  if  I  were  at  all  alarmed  about  Lucy?    But  I'm  not." 

"  All  right !  "  she  said.  "  Put  it  that  way  if  you  like  it  better. 
Wliat  would  you  do  ?  " 

"  If  I  were — //  I  were — "  said  he,  intensifying  his  hypothesis, 
"  I  suppose  I  should   ...   I  suppose  I  should  take  steps." 

"  I  suppose  so  too.     Wliat  steps  ?  " 

Perhaps  a  pretence  that  he  need  not  shrink  from  a  supposi- 
titious case  was  the  most  effective  way  of  showing  fortitude. 

"  Why — in  that  case — in  that  case,  mind  you  ! — I  should  con- 
sult the  people  at  Scotland  Yard.   ..." 

"  This  isn't  a  police  case." 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  519 

"  No.  But  they  have  exceptional  and  most  effectual  means  of 
enquiry.  Nothing  like  it  anywhere  in  Europe !  Even  the 
Ereneh  and  Kussian  police  may  take  a  lesson  from  our  people 
at  Scotland  Yard.  I  saw  a  good  deal  of  them  at  the  time  of 
that  unfortunate  affair  of  poor  Fred's  uncle — our  old  school- 
master, you  know.   ..." 

"  I  know — Dr.  Carteret.    But  they  found  nothing." 

"  Well — no !  But  I  am  convinced  that  if  there  had  been 
anything  that  could  have  been  found  they  would  have  found 
it  .  .  . "  He  stopped  abruptly  and  broke  into  an  uneasy  laugh. 
"  But  what  has  all  this  to  do  with  Lucy's  being  a  bit  behind 
time  in  coming  home  from  Paris  ?  Why — God  bless  my  soul ! — 
isn't  it  a  thousand  times  more  likely  that  she  has  stopped  on 
the  way,  and  written  that  she  won't  be  home  for  a  week,  than 
that  anything  should  have  happened  to  her!  I  mean,  suppose 
the  letter  miscarried.  They  do  miscarry,  every  day.  I  don't 
care  what  the  post  office  says.   ,    .    .   \\liat  ?  " 

She  had  begun  to  speak,  and  stopped.  She  began  again, 
speaking  in  a  curious,  significant  way : — "  I  do  not  suppose  for 
a  moment  that  anything  has  happened  to  her — anything  of  that 
sort.  .  .  . "  She  was  getting  into  difficulties.  She  halted  and 
changed  colour. 

He  changed  colour  too,  but  his  change  was  towards  pallor. 
"  Then  what   .    .    .   what  do  you  suppose  ?  "     He  hesitated. 

Instead  of  replying  to  his  question,  she  looked  straight  at  him, 
and  said : — "  Mr.  Snaith,  I  want  you  to  make  me  a  promise. 
Promise  me  that  you  will  not  go  to  the  police  without  telling 
me." 

He  began  confidently  enough,  saying : — "  That's  an  easy 
promise  to  make,  seeing  that  I  shan't  ..."  But  something 
crossed  his  mind  before  he  could  say  what  he  meant — that  Scot- 
land Yard  was  foreign  to  this  subject.  He  stopped  uneasily, 
and  ended : — "  I  wish  you  would  tell  me  why.  You've  got  some 
idea." 

Nancy  stood  biting  her  lip,  in  sore  perplexity.  How  she 
longed  to  be  able  to  speak  out !  But  the  "  idea  "  she  had  got 
was  simply  too  terrible  to  utter  aloud — to  Charles,  at  least.  To 
sav  that  this  was  so,  and  yet  to  keep  silence,  would  be  worse  than 
plain  speech.  But  could  she  not  speak  plainly,  without  bringing 
in  Fred  Carteret?  It  was  he  that  was  the  terror  of  that  idea. 
Keep  him  out!  A  fortunate  recollection  of  her  mother's  family 
came  to  her  and  made  speech  easier.  "  I  may  just  as  well  tell 
you/'  said  she.    "  It  was  an  aunt  of  my  mother's   ..." 


520  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

Charles  looked  puzzled,  and  repeated : — "  An  aunt  of  your 
mother's  !    Ye-es — what  of  her?  " 

"  She  bolted  from  her  husband — went  to  the  Orkneys,  I  be- 
lieve, all  by  herself.  She  wrote  to  him — some  weeks  after,  I 
think — and  then  he  went  to  the  Orkneys,  and  brought  her  back. 
She  was  very  good  friends  with  him,  all  the  time." 

"  How  rum !  Did  she  say  anything  in  her  letter  ?  Anything 
in  the  way  of  explanation  ?  " 

"  Said  she  wanted  a  change,  I  believe." 

"  She  must  have  been  cracked." 

"  Not  at  all.  The  doctors  said  it  was  a  form  of  mental  aliena- 
tion. What's  to  prevent  Lucy  having  an  attack  of  mental 
alienation  ?  " 

"  Your  great-aunt  couldn't  expect  a  monopoly,  certainly." 

"  I'm  so  glad  to  hear  you  laughing  at  me.  But  one  can't  help 
being  uneasy." 

"  Yes,  one  can.  If  '  one '  means  me.  I'm  not,  the  least. 
Mental  alienation  may  go  and  hang  itself.  A  letter  has  mis- 
carried— and  there's  the  whole  mystery  in  three  words.  You'll 
see  I'm  right." 

Nancy  was  on  the  edge  of  saying : — "  I  hope  I  shall."  She 
stopped  herself  in  time,  and  said  she  expected  she  would-  The 
change  of  a  word  made  the  whole  difference,  and  the  phrase  was 
good  to  make  her  exit  on.  She  had  been  so  near  an  awkward 
corner  that  she  was  glad  to  get  away.  So  she  said  good-night, 
and  was  going,  when  Charles  stopped  her. 

"  I  say,  Miss  Fraser !  "  said  he. 

"  You  say — what  ?  .  .  .  All  right,  I'm  not  in  a  hurry ! 
Tilly  Slowboy's  mounting  guard." 

"  Well — it's  nothing,  only  I  thought  I  should  like  to  know. 
About  your  great-aunt  and  great-uncle.  .  .  .  That's  right, 
isn't  it?" 

"  Yes — great-aunt  and  great-uncle.  My  mother's  aunt  by 
marriage  she  was.     Why  ?  " 

"  I'm  not  sure  that  I  have  any  right  to  be  inquisitive  ?  " 

"  It's  not  inquisitive.  They've  been  dead  twenty  years.  I 
only  remember  them  as  a  child." 

"  What  I  wanted  to  ask  was — are  you  sure  there  had  been  no 
quarrel  ?     But  if  you  were  so  small  how  could  you  know  ?  " 

"  I  knew  nothing  but  what  my  mother  told  me,  that  Aunt 
Cecilia  ran  away  from  Uncle  Frank  to  the  Orkney  Islands  and 
the  doctors  said  it  was  mental  alienation.  He  didn't  find  her 
through  the  police  at  all,  but  got  a  letter  a  month  after,  and  just 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  521 

went  and  persuaded  her  to  come  back.  What  has  happened  once 
may  happen  again.  So  you  see  now  why  I  want  you  not  to  go 
to  Scotland  Yard  enquiring.  Where's  the  use  of  setting  people 
talking  ?  "  According  to  Nancy's  standard,  this  speech  was  a 
piece  of  duplicity,  and  she  felt  quite  guilty.  But,  after  all,  her 
suspicions  about  Fred  Carteret  might  be  so  much  unqualified 
delusion.  She  had  simply  no  right  to  speak  of  them.  Re- 
member that,  for  all  she  knew,  Lucy  was  unshaken  in  her  wifely 
constancy,  and  she  only  looked  on  Fred  as  the  victim  of  an 
unfortunate  delusion.  With  his  mother  it  was  otherwise;  but, 
to  her,  Fred's  indication  of  how  the  land  lay  had  been  just  as 
much  as  was  necessary — no  more. 

Charles  seemed  to  find  that  great-aunt's  eccentric  conduct 
soothing.  No — it  would  be  quite  premature  to  take  for  granted 
that  any  case  was  made  out  for  a  hue-and-cry  after  Lucy.  He 
would  not  have  been  deterred  from  it  by  any  fear  of  being 
thought  over-nervous  and  fussy  about  her  delayed  arrival;  it 
was  simply  that  he  saw  no  occasion  for  panic  under  the  circum- 
stances. Of  course  he  was  in  a  fuss;  he  admitted  that.  But 
his  common  sense  told  him  that  this  fuss  was  unreasonable,  and 
it  was  our  duty  to  be  guided  in  all  things  by  reason  and  common 
sense.  In  a  few  days'  time — probably  hours — we  should  be 
laughing  at  all  this  groundless  alarm. 

"  Just  so !  "  said  Miss  Fraser.  She  had  said  good-night  once, 
and  was  not  going  to  say  it  again.  But  she  was  going  back  to 
Mrs.  Gorhambury,  who  would  be  wondering  what  on  earth  had 
become  of  her.  Charles  felt  that  he  did  not  want  her  to  go. 
He  was  afraid  of  himself,  left  alone.  He  had  a  sort  of  feeling 
that  he  could  not  press  a  young  lady  to  stop  and  keep  him  com- 
pany. In  old  days  he  would  have  added  the  words  "  even 
Elbows "  to  his  reflection  to  this  effect.  He  did  not  do  so 
now. 

How  terribly  he  missed  Fred !  Think  of  the  comfort — the 
support — the  consolation  it  would  have  been  now,  to  see  his  face, 
to  hear  his  voice. 

He  had  not  announced  his  own  programme — had  merely  told 
Anne  that  he  might  stop;  so  his  room  was  to  be  ready.  He  did 
not  feel  inclined  to  toss  and  tumble  on  a  sleepless  couch,  perhaps 
all  through  the  small  hours.  And  all  the  while — now  he  thought 
of  it — a  letter  might  be  lying  at  the  diggings,  waiting  for  him. 
Yes — that  was  the  idea !  Walk  over  to  Wimbledon  in  this  splen- 
did moonlight  and  catch  the  last  train  up.  If  he  came  back  here 
to-morrow  he  would  probably  find  her  letter ;  but  she  mighi  have 


522  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

written  to  his  chambers.     It  was  possible?     Anyhow^  no  harm 
would  be  done. 

The  servants  had  gone  to  bed,  and  he  had  to  unbolt  the  house- 
door  to  get  ovit.  No  one  would  bolt  it  up  again,  that  was  cer- 
tain, in  case  he  changed  his  mind  and  went  for  a  walk  instead. 
But  he  wouldn't  do  that.  Much  better  go  up  to  London,  and 
come  back  in  the  morning.  He  looked  at  his  watch.  Just  time 
to  catch  the  last  train — no  more!  He  started  for  Wimbledon 
at  a  brisk  walk.  However,  there  was  really  no  hurry,  as  that 
train  was  always  late. 

A  train  that  is  always  late  is  not  to  be  trusted.  If  it  comes 
to  its  knowledge  that  you  or  I  want  to  catch  it,  it  is  as  like  as 
not  to  reform  its  bad  habits,  and  be  in  time,  this  time,  although 
it  may  have  a  relapse  to-morrow.  This  vice  especially  distin- 
guishes last  trains  to  London.  Charles's  train  left  the  station 
just  as  he  entered  it;  and  he,  ascribing  last-but-oneness  to,  a 
priori,  had  the  humiliation  of  learning  that  there  was  nothing 
till  seven-thirty  to-morrow  morning,  and  had  to  walk  back. 
However,  it  was  evident — and  this  was  satisfactory — that  there 
must  be  a  letter  at  the  diggings;  otherwise,  what  motive  could 
Fate  have  in  thus  reserving  the  natural  order  of  things  ? 

The  most  grievous  anxiety  will  not  force  a  man  to  lie  awake 
who  has  covered  nearly  five  miles  of  ground  overnight.  But  it 
will  fight  a  hard  battle  ere  it  gives  way  to  Morpheus.  Charles's 
yielded  so  late  that  he  did  not  wake  until  Anne,  who  had  drawn 
inferences  from  dusty  boots  outside  his  door,  came  with  hot 
water. 

He  was  late,  and  disconcerted  to  find  that  Nancy,  in  bicycle 
trim,  was  pumping  up  her  tyres  to  depart.  '*'  I've  committed 
myself  to  going,"  said  she,  "  by  sending  them  a  wire  at  home 
to  say  I  shall  be  home  to  lunch.  And  I've  told  Mrs.  Gorham- 
bury  to  write  for  me  if  she  wants  me.  She's  a  lot  better,  and 
I'm  rushing  away  because  I'm  really  overdue  at  home.  They'll 
be  making  a  rumpus  if  I  don't  go.  You'll  see,  you'll  hear  from 
Lucy  to-day.  .  .  .  No,  I  won't  go  till  the  next  post  comes. 
Hadn't  you  better  go  and  get  some  breakfast,  Mr.  Snaith  ?  I'm 
going  upstairs  to  say  farewell  to  my  beloved.  Makes  one  feel 
like  the  Song  of  Solomon ! "  She  felt  her  tyre,  and  saw  that  it 
was  good,  and  went  away  upstairs. 

Charley  deceived  himself  into  thinking  that  all  was  well  with 
him,  to  the  extent  of  swallowing  an  ordinary  breakfast,  and 
glancing  at  the  usual  news  in  a  customary  newspaper.  He  was 
braced  up  to  this  point  by  Miss  Fraser's  assurance  and  sangfroid 


1 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  523 

about  the  coming  post.  There  she  was  outside,  talking  to  King 
Solomon,  who  was  being  carried  out  by  Tilly  Slowboy  to  give 
her  godspeed.  She  was  speaking  to  him  in  a  conventional 
tongue  he  was  supposed  to  understand,  to  the  effect  that  as  soon 
as  his  delicious  little  legs  were  long  enough,  he  should  have  a 
Humber  all  for  himself  and  come  for  rides  with  his  lady  friends. 
Charles  looked  happy  over  this.  It  was  as  well  that  he  should 
do  so  while  he  could. 

Which  of  us  has  not  felt  that  what  the  postman  drops  in  the 
box  cuts  time  in  half,  ending  the  Past  on  the  hour  when  we  had 
not  read  that  letter;  or  beginning  the  Future,  as  may  be?  We 
have  not  read  it  yet,  but  its  contents  are  there.  When  the  un- 
mistakable footstep  was  heard  on  the  gravel  path  outside— for 
this  postman  knew  how  to  open  the  outer  gate,  though  no  one 
else  did,  not  even  the  Milk — Charles  made  his  face  stoical,  not 
to  show  any  emotion  whatever  before  Tilly  Slowboy,  and  the 
taker  away  "of  breakfast,  or  its  memories.  He  communed  with 
his  son,  leaving  the  undisguised  eagerness  of  Nancy  to  get  at  the 
envelopes. 

"  Yes — here  we  are  !  This  is  her !  Foreign  postmark  though 
—what's  that  for?" 

Charles  did  not  see  the  issue.  "  Well — that's  all  right !  "  said 
he.  "  Posted  abroad.  ...  Oh  no ! — I  see  what  you  mean.  It 
is  rum.  But  it's  her  handwriting,  anyhow!  Give  us  hold. 
Nothing  like  looking  inside  a  letter  to  find  what  there  is  in  it." 
For  Nancy,  clearer  headed  perhaps  than  he  was — for  indeed  the 
sight  of  Lucy's  handwriting  had  so  relieved  him  that  his  judg- 
ment was,  for  the  moment,  nowhere — had  seen  that  a  Lucerne 
postmark  brought  no  solution  of  the  mystery;  rather  deepened 
it,  in  fact.  "  I'll  just  run  my  eye  through  it  and  tell  you  what's 
in  it — honour  bright !  "  Charles  did  not  open  the  letter  then 
and  there — perhaps  to  assert  Stoicism — but  bore  it  away  to  his 
little  smoking  den,  just  round  the  corner. 

Nancy  would  of  course  have  waited  anyhow,  but  outside  this 
fact  she  was  influenced  by  a  misunderstanding  of  Master 
Charles's;  if  indeed  she  rightly  ascribed  an  outbreak  of  savage 
violence  on  his  part  to  a  sense  of  injury  at  the  letter  being 
delivered  to  his  father,  and  not  to  himself.  WTiatever  the  cause, 
he  required  a  good  deal  of  explanation  and  apology,  accompanied 
by  suggestions  of  his  motives.  As  soon,  however,  as  an  intensely 
sudden  calm  came  upon  him,  for  no  apparent  reason,  Nancy 
said  to  Tilly  Slowboy,  who  was  a  lay-figure  to  converse  with,  but 
no  more : — "  I'm  curious  about  that  postmark — why  Lucerne  ?  " 


524  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

Tilly  conceived  that  this  referred  to  the  use  of  that  name,  when 
it  would  have  been  Just  as  easy  to  call  that  place,  wherever  it 
was,  by  some  plain  intelligible  English  name. 

"  Well  now,"  said  Tilly,  "  if  that  very  thing  didn't  crost  my 
mind.  Loose  Hurn ! — such  a  name  I  never,  nor  yet  anyone 
else.  As  I  say,  there  ain't  no  accountin'  for  foreigners,  nor 
askin'  of  'em  what  next.  You  won't  be  even  with  them.  ..." 
And  so  on.  At  another  time,  Nancy  might  have  tried  to  correct 
the  under-nurse's  misconception.  Just  now,  she  was  only 
anxious  to  hear  the  explanation  contained  in  that  letter.  She 
would  finish  making  sure  of  her  bike's  readiness  for  the  road. 
It  might  be  a  long  letter,  and  Nosey  would  read  it  all  through 
before  he  came  out  to  tell  what  was  in  it.  No  misgiving  crossed 
her  mind  that  anything  was  not  all  right.  In  fact,  she  went  so 
far  as  to  think  to  herself  a  wish  that  Nosey  would  look  alive. 

The  nursemaid  might  communicate  to  j\Irs.  Gorhambury  that 
a  letter  had  come  from  the  mistress.  Nancy  favoured  a  fiction 
that  Master  Charles  was  yearning  to  carry  tlie  news,  and  was 
rejoicing  in  the  prospect  of  welcoming  his  mamma.  He  was 
borne  away  upstairs  shouting  and  much  pleased  with  himself, 
but  neither  confirming  nor  contradicting  these  statements. 

It  icas  a  long  letter — no  doul)t  of  that  I  Still,  Lucy  must  have 
been  all  alive  and  kicking,  to  write  such  a  long  letter.  That  was 
satisfactor}^  at  any  rate. 

Tom  the  taciturn  appeared  restless,  irresolute,  uncertain  what 
he  should  garden  next.  For  as  he  walked  along  the  terrace-walk 
in  front  of  the  house  towards  where  Nancy  was  engaged  with  her 
bicycle,  he  faltered  and  lingered — seemed  to  glance  in  at  the 
window  of  the  room  where  Charles  was  reading  the  letter.  Not 
like  Tom ! — for  one  of  Tom's  aims  in  life  was  to  limit  all  the 
others  to  the  garden,  and  to  ignore  the  house  so  far  as  was 
consistent  with  respect  for  its  inhabitants. 

Nancy  set  this  action  on  Tom's  part  down  to  his  ignorance — 
which  she  inferred — of  his  master's  unexpected  arrival.  "  Glad 
to  see  Mr.  Snaith  back,  Tom?"  said  she,  under  this  impres- 
sion. 

Tom  corrected  it,  but  with  something  odd  in  his  manner.  "  I 
seen  the  master  before,"  said  he,  "  to  talk  to.  Out  in  this  here 
garden,  early  Thursday  morning." 

"  Oh,  I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  Nancy.  "  But  you  were  very 
glad  to  see  him  then,  no  doubt  ?     So  it  comes  to  the  same  thing." 

"  Ah,  I  was.     Very  glad  to  see  him  then,  I  was." 

"  Aren't  you  glad  to  see  him  now  ?     You  don't  mean  that !  " 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  525 

Nancy  was  amused  at  what  she  thought  was  merely  the  man's 
manner. 

Instead  of  answering,  he  turned  back  along  the  walk,  and 
stopped  opposite  the  window,  as  before.  In  a  second  or  so,  he 
turned  and  came  back,  but  seemed  in  a  difficulty  about  speech. 

"  Well — what's  that  for  ?  "  said  Nancy. 

Tom  stammered  and  turned  red;  then,  vnth  an  effort,  said: — 
"Wasn't  I  glad  to  see  the  master  now,  you  said?  Well,  I'd  be 
gladder  to  see  him  move,  if  you  ask  me.  And  that's  the  honest 
truth." 

"  Gladder  to  see  him  move !  "  Nancy  repeated  the  words  in 
sudden  fear.  "  You  mean  that  he's  .  .  .  ill  ?  .  .  .  What  do 
you  mean  ?  " 

Tom  was  ready  with  an  indirect  reply.  "  I  should  knock  at 
his  door,"  said  he.     "  That's  what  I  should  do." 

Nancy  looked  at  him,  and  saw  from  his  face  what  he  meant. 
His  look  was  explicit,  though  his  words  were  not.  "  See  that  my 
machine  doesn't  fall  down,"  said  she,  and  forsook  it. 

She  ran  along  the  passage,  stopped  at  the  door  of  the  smoking- 
room,  and  listened — No  sound ! — Then  she  tapped,  once,  twice. 
No  answer !  She  wavered  twenty  seconds,  still  hoping  an  answer 
would  come,  then  gently  opened  the  door,  ready  to  speak  again 
if  any  sound  came.     She  looked  in  and  saw  no  one. 

He  must  be  there,  of  necessity.  Tom  had  not  seen  an  empty 
room  through  the  window.  His  speech  had  settled  that.  It  was 
the  further  window  that  he  had  paused  at.  Nancy  saw  the  facts 
at  a  glance.  She  could  account  for  the  whole  room,  all  but  the 
floor  between  a  sofa-back  and  the  desk,  easily  visible  from  that 
window.  What  he  had  seen  was  there.  And  she,  Nancy  Fraser, 
had  to  see  it  first,  and  then  call  help.  It  was  all  clear  to  her  in 
a  moment. 

She  went  near,  in  silent  dread,  and  looked  with  an  effort,  at 
the  insensible  figure  she  had  foreseen ;  then  turned  and  ran  back, 
calling  for  help  as  she  went. 

"  Come ! — come !  Mr.  Snaith  is  ill — he  has  fainted.  Come ! 
.  .  .  Where  is  a  doctor?  .  .  .  Wbcre  is  his  house?  I  can  go 
for  him.  .  .  .  Yes — quicker  than  any  of  you — on  the  bike." 
And  being  informed,  Nancy  would  have  started  off  there  and 
then,  to  find  him,  if  testimony  had  not  gone  to  show  that  the 
same  doctor  would  be  sure  to  be  out  seeing  patients:  more  by 
token  that  he  was  already  due  at  The  Cedars  to  succour  Mrs. 
Gorhambury.  It  was  a  lucky  chance,  and  he  would  be  sure  to 
arrive  in  a  minute  or  two,  as  he  had  been  in  the  neighbourhood. 

"  34 


520  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

His  carriage  had  been  seen  to  pass  the  house  on  the  waA'  to 
another  patient,  like  it  did  yesterday,  when  he  called  on  his  way 
back. 

An  unexpected  auxiliary  appeared  too  in  the  shape  of  the 
doctor's  patient.  The  shock  and  excitement  drove  the  himbago 
suddenly  away  from  its  victim,  and  the  semi-dishevelled  figure 
that  met  Nancy's  surprised  eyes  on  the  stairs  as — returning  from 
her  second  visit  to  the  insensible  man,  having  found  that  neither 
she,  nor  the  cook,  nor  the  gardener,  had  any  real  knowledge  of 
first  aid  in  such  a  seizure — was  actually  Mrs.  Gorhambury  her- 
self !  Her  experience  was  useful,  as  it  saved  Charles  from 
sundry  methods  of  treatment  of  which  the  other  members  of  the 
household  had  heard  tell  as  sovran  remedies.  She  was  reassur- 
ing about  the  case,  saying  after  a  very  slight  examination  of 
it : — "  No — don't  you  put  his  feet  in  boiling  water,  nor  yet  his 
head.  Nor  don't  rub  brandy  on  the  palms  of  his  hands.  Just 
lie  him  fiat  on  the  sofa,  and  open  out  his  collar,  and  bide  a  bit. 
He'll  be  come  to  before  Dr.  Tinkwell  gets  here — you  see  if  he 
isn't !  " 

On  her  second  visit  to  the  room,  after  giving  the  alarm,  Nancy 
had  seen  in  Charles's  hand  the  letter  he  had  carried  away  to 
read.  It  was  something  in  that  letter  that  had  done  it.  She 
longed  to  know  what,  to  be  relieved  about  Lucy's  safety.  But 
rules  must  be  observed.  "  No  man  shall  read  another's  letter 
without  his  leave  "  is  a  rule  that  scarcely  admits  of  an  exception. 
Nancy  opened  the  table-drawer  close  at  hand,  and  put  the  letter 
in  and  shut  it.  This  was  not  to  free  herself  from  temptation, 
but  to  prevent  its  being  seen — possibly  read — by  someone  else. 

Mrs.  Gorhambury  was  right.  The  unconscious  man  recovered 
and  spoke,  or  tried  to  speak,  before  the  doctor  arrived.  Nancy 
could  not  catch  what  he  said,  and  had  to  go  away  to  head  off 
the  doctor  from  him,  knowing  that  officious  therapeutics  would 
be  unwelcome.  She  had  also  to  explain  Mrs.  Gorhambury.  Dr. 
Tinkwell  was  rather  indignant  at  that  patient's  independent  be- 
haviour, he  having  told  her  on  no  account  to  try  to  get  up.  But 
he  admitted  the  capricious  character  of  lumbago.  Nancy  prom- 
ised that  she  should  appear  forthwith  and  state  her  own  case. 
She  said  almost  nothing  about  the  cause  of  the  sudden  alarm 
that  had  brought  the  nurse  to  her  feet,  and  said  good-bye  to  the 
doctor. 

She  met  Mrs.  Gorhambury  leaving  the  smoking-room  in  an 
optimistic  mood. 

"The  master's  coming  to  all  right,"  said  she.     "Just  like  I 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  527 

told  you !  He's  asking  for  some  letter.  We  don't  see  no  letter. 
Perhaps  you  know,  Miss  ?  " 

That  was  all  right.  Miss  Eraser  knew  what  he  meant.  "  You 
go  and  see  Dr.  Tinkwell,  Mrs.  Gorhambury,"  said  she.  "  He's 
in  the  parlour."     She  went  into  the  smoking-room. 

They  had  got  him  to  swallow  brandy,  in  her  absence.  It  had 
roused  him,  there  was  no  doubt  of  that ;  was  rousing  him  still, 
for  that  matter.  ''  Miss  Fraser  knows,"  said  he.  "  I  had  it  in 
my  hand — just  now!    What's  become  of  it?  " 

"  I  know  about  the  letter,"  said  she.  "  I  slipped  it  inside  the 
desk.  Here !  "  She  went  to  the  desk,  adding,  as  she  brought 
the  letter  out: — "  Hadn't  you  better  lie  down,  Mr.  Snaith?  " 

He  was  raising  himself  with  his  hands,  dropping  his  feet  to 
the  ground.  Probably  he  felt  his  weakness  and  dizziness.  For 
he  fell  back,  saying : — "  Perhaps  I  had,"  with  evident  relief. 
"  They  may  go  now,"  he  said.  But  he  seemed  to  think  this 
might  be  felt  as  ingratitude,  for  he  added : — "  Thank  you  all 
very  much.  You  were  very  kind.  Now  I  am  all  right."  The 
household  departed,  the  housemaid  Anne  slightly  asserting  her- 
self, as  priestess  of  that  floor,  by  removing  something,  or  replac- 
ing something,  or  adjusting  something  she  might  just  as  well 
have  left  alone. 

Nancy  held  out  the  letter  for  him  to  take.  But  he  shook  his 
head,  saying : — "  No — no — no  !  I  cannot  read  it.  I  cannot 
trust  myself.  I  must  have  read  it  wrong.  I  should  read  it 
wrong  again.  You  must  read  it — aloud — now!"  On  the  last 
words,  he  rose  to  emphasis ;  then  seemed  unable  to  say  more, 
as  though  exhausted. 

But  it  was  something  in  this  letter — some  news  or  what  not — 
that  had  brought  on  this  attack.  Nancy  wavered,  not  uncom- 
pliant, but  protesting.  "  Did  Lucy  expect  me  to  ?  "  said  she, 
hesitating. 

"  Read — read !  "  said  he,  impatiently.  "  Never  mind ! — read 
it  through,  and  get  it  over.    .    .    .    Oh  my  God !  " 

What  could  it  be  in  the  letter,  to  make  him  moan  like  that? 
All  that  Nancy  could  see  at  this  moment  was  a  letter  written 
to  all  seeming  with  a  steady  hand,  dated  Hotel  d'Europe, 
Lucerne,  two  days  since.  She  glanced  quickly  at  the  signature, 
and  saw  that  it  was  from  his  wife,  beyond  a  doubt.  But  why 
Lucerne?  Her  pause  of  bewilderment  was  brought  to  an  end 
by  his  repetition  of  his  request  to  her  to  read.  ''  If  I  am  gone 
mad,  let  me  know  it."  More  to  himself  than  to  her,  he  added : — 
"  Perhaps  this  is  all  a  dream." 


528  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

She  had  no  choice  but  to  read,  but  the  words  were  wormwood 
on  her  tongue.     This  was  the  letter : — 

"  After  your  accusation  of  falsehood  against  me  last  night 
no  course  is  open  to  mc  but  to  end  our  connection.  If  I  loved 
you,  I  might  think  otherwise.  But  I  have  come  to  understand 
how  little  affection  had  to  do  with  our  union.  I  was  influenced 
— I  am  ashamed  to  confess  it — by  my  mother  and  others,  who 
represented  to  me  that  to  reject  your  suit  would  be  to  throw 
away  worldly  advantages  of  which  I  might  live  to  regret  the  loss. 
I  was  influenced  too,  very  seriously,  by  the  fact — which  I  freely 
admit  now — that  at  the  time  I  knew  no  man  towards  whom  I  felt 
more  amiably  disposed.  Young  women  at  my  time  of  life  often 
imagine  that  a  feeling  of  this  sort  may  warrant  matrimony.  I 
was  mistaken,  but  a  mistake  is  no  crime,  and  once  discovered,  the 
sooner  its  consequences  are  undone  the  better. 

"  I  do  not  blame  your  behaviour  towards  me  last  night.  On 
the  contrary  I  feel  in  a  sense  grateful  for  it.  It  has  given  me 
courage  to  speak  plainly  and  end  the  unsatisfactory  conditions 
of  my  life.  Women  would  often  take  the  same  step,  but  they  are 
cowards,  and  slaves  of  superstition.  Their  '  wifely  duties ' — 
forsooth !— are  to  be  considered  before  their  happiness.  I  am  not 
prepared  with  this  extent  of  docility. 

"  I  am  much  concerned  that  you  should  not  misunderstand 
me.  You  may  easily  put  this  action  of  mine  down  to  resentment 
or  dislike.  If  you  ascribe  either  feeling  to  me  you  will  do  me 
an  injustice.  1  have  every  feeling  for  you  that  is  described  as 
friendship,  friendly  regard,  or  respect.  But  one  feeling  I  have 
not,  and  it  is  the  one  that  is  essential  to  every  marriage  in  which 
the  wife  is  more  than  a  slave,  I  mean  Love.  /  do  not  love  you, 
and  that  is  the  simple  truth  in  three  words.  That  wife  that  we 
saw  at  the  play  in  Paris  obviously  loved  her  husband  in  spite 
of  herself. 

"  You  will  oblige  me  by  informing  my  mother  of  this,  and 
telling  her  that  I  do  not  propose  to  return  to  England,  at  least 
at  present.  Letters  sent  to  me  at  this  address  will  be  for- 
warded. With  every  good  wish  for  your  happiness  without  me, 
I  remain,  your  legally,'  at  present,  however  impatiently, 

"  Lucy  Snaith." 

Nancy  had  a  hard  task  to  read  this  letter.  When  she  had 
finished  it  she  did  not  dare,  at  first,  to  raise  her  eyes  from  it, 
and  look  up  at  the  unhappy  man  on  whom  she  had,  as  it  were, 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  529 

been  compelled  to  use  it  as  a  knife.  She  had  been  stabbing 
Charles  Snaith  against  her  will. 

A  moment  passed.  Then  she  was  forced  to  look  up  at  him  by 
the  strangeness  of  the  voice  that  said : — "  What  am  I  to  do  ?  " 
It  was  almost  as  though  someone  else,  not  known  to  be  in  the 
room,  had  spoken.  His  eyes  were  wild,  and  his  breath  came 
quick.  He  repeated  a^ain — kept  on  repeating : — "  What  am  I 
to  do — what  am  I  to  do  ?  " 

Nancy  had  her  own  convictions  of  what  had  happened — of 
what  was  going  to  happen.  But  her  immediate  task  was  to  catch 
at  anything  that  would  bring  him  hope — anything  to  stave  ofE 
the  worst  tension  of  the  moment.  An  idea  crossed  her  mind. 
"  Listen ! "  said  she,  in  a  voice  that  meant  that  he  should  do 
so.  "  What  was  the  name  that  doctor  called  it  by  ?  '  Mental 
alienation.'  That's  what  it  is  with  Lucy.  She  has  not  gone 
mad." 

That  eased  him,  with  its  clever  assumption  that  nothing  short 
of  some  form  of  insanity  could  account  for  such  a  letter. 
Nancy's  speech  simply  dismissed  as  incredible  any  substantial 
change  in  Lucy's  affection  for  her  husband.  Panic  went  out  of 
his  voice,  and  left  it  free  to  say : — "  Yes — it's  that !  That's  what 
it  is — mental  alienation — mental  alienation!  Nothing  short  of 
stark  madness,  else !  .  .  .  You  really  think  that,  Nancy  Fraser, 
do  you  not  ?  " 

"  Oh  dear  yes ! — I'm  entirely  in  earnest.  I  believe  these  things 
happen  every  day,  if  we  only  knew.  Shall  I  toll  you  what  I 
think  you  had  better  do  ?  " 

He  thought  a  moment ;  then  said  very  emphatically : — "  Yes 
— I'll  be  guided  by  you.  I  can't  see  my  way.  This  thing  has 
turned  me  right  over."  Then  he  went  on,  but  more  as  though 
speaking  to  himself  than  to  her : — "  What  a  brick  of  a  girl  you 
are !  .  .  .  Beg  your  pardon !  "  This  last  as  though  in  apology 
for  freedom,  of  speech. 

She  took  no  notice  of  this,  but  went  on,  keeping  to  the  point. 
"  Write  to  Lucy,  saying  you  have  got  this,  and  that  you  are 
starting  for  Lucerne  at  once ;  or — well ! — as  soon  as  possible. 
That  is,  lose  no  time !  " 

He  caught  at  the  idea  eagerly.  "'  Quite  right— quite  right," 
he  said.  "  Much  the  best  course.  I'll  go  at  "once.  I'll  go  to- 
day." He  waited  a  moment  for  her  to  speak;  then,  misunder- 
standing a  silence  on  her  part,  added  hesitatinglv,  wistfullv: — 
"  It  will  be  all  right— all  made  up  ?  You  ^think  so,  don't 
you  ?  " 


530  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

Whatever  she  felt  or  feared,  confidence  was  necessar3\  Put  a 
good  face  on  the  matter,  anjdiow ! — that  was  her  feeling. 
"Think  so!"  said  she.  "I  am  sure  of  it.  Shall  I  tell  you 
what  makes  me  so  sure  of  it?  .  .  .  All  right,  I  will."  She 
explained  that  her  reading  of  the  letter  had  thrown  a  light 
on  Lucy's  disappearance,  about  the  causes  of  which  she  had 
hitherto  been  quite  in  the  dark.  "  To  be  sure,"  said  she,  "  it 
did  cross  my  mind  when  you  asked  whether  my  aunt  Caecilia 
and  her  husband  had  not  quarrelled,  but  then  I  decided  that 
you  might  mean  that  you  and  Lucy  had  not,  which  was  all 
the  difference.  But  her  letter  says,  '  accusation  of  false- 
hood.' "  She  glanced  at  the  first  page  in  confirmation,  then 
looked  him  straight  in  the  face,  her  frankness  scattering  eva- 
sions in  advance,  with  words  he  could  not  possibly  contradict : 
"  You  and  she  were  not  in  a  honeypot,  anyhow." 

At  another  time  he  would  have  smiled  at  her  way  of  putting 
it.  Now  he  said,  sadly  and  seriously : — "  No,  we  were  not, — 
not  exactly.  But  nothing  was  further  from  my  thoughts  than 
to  quarrel  with  Lucy."     He  really  believed  what  he  said. 

"  What  a  very  funny  thing  it  is,"  said  Nancy,  "  how  many 
people  nothing  is  farther  from  everybody  else's  thoughts  than 
to  quarrel  with !  .  .  .  Yes — I  know  that  isn't  big-wig  lu- 
cidity, but  you'll  have  to  make  it  do." 

"  I'll  make  it  do.  It  is  a  very  funny  thing,  and  I  know 
quite  well  what  you  mean.  But  let  me  tell  you  the  whole  of 
it."  He  did  so,  after  some  protest  from  Nancy,  who  said  it 
wasn't  fair,  because  she  always  believed  the  side  she  heard 
first.  However,  she  listened  to  a  narrative  of  the  facts,  which 
was  only  misleading  in  the  persistent  attempt  of  the  narrator 
to  take  the  blame  on  himself.  It  was  so  transparent  as  to  be 
intelligible  to  its  hearer. 

"  I'm  sorry  for  Lucy,"  said  she,  when  he  had  done.  "  I'm 
afraid  there's  nothing  to  absolve  her  with,  except  that  two 
years  have  passed  since  she  told  the  editor  chap.  Plenty  of 
time  ago  is  as  good  as  Holv  Water."  Charles  interjected: — 
"Yes— I  know.  But  it  wasn't  that."  She  replied:— "Of 
course  not.  She  ought  to  have  told  the  whole  truth  after 
you  met  the  man  at  the  play.  Then  she  wouldn't  have  had  a 
hocus-pocus  about  the  letter.  She  got  mixed  up  and  couldn't 
get  clear.     Just  like  me  when  I  tell  lies ! " 

"  Do  you  ever  tell  lies  ?  " 

"  Precious  seldom  nowadays.  I'm  too  stupid  to  get  out  of 
the  messes  I  get  into.      Eeally  if  you   heard  me  you   would 


) 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  531 

think  .  .  .  Well!— it's  a  caution  for  snakes,  I  assure  you."' 
Somehow  the  gravity  of  Nancy's  face,  colliding  with  the 
schoolboy  levity  of  her  language,  had  the  strange  effect  of 
making 'her  look  pretty;  or,  if  that  overstates  it,  of  accen- 
tuating whatever  beauty  she  possessed.  For  she  had  Just 
enough  to  give  her  face  an  interest — must  have  had,  for 
Charles  to  notice  it  at  tliis  moment. 

He  began  one  or  two  supplementary  extenuations  of  Lucy's 
breach  of  faith  in  spite  of  the  time  that  had  elapsed,  and  made 
but  a  poor  show.  Nancy  gave  him  very  little  help  in  this, 
though  she  did  what  she  could.  He  was  unable  to  conceal 
what  was  perhaps  the  worst  feature  of  the  case — that  manipu- 
lation of  the  letter  in  Paris.  Nancy's  generous  offer  of  her 
own  reputation  for  veracity  did  very  little  good. 

She  was  much  embarrassed  by  the  fact  that  she  had  sent 
that  telegram  home  to  say  she  was  coming.  As  things  had 
turned  out,  she  would  much  rather  have  stopped  and  kept  an 
eye  on  Nosey,  with  that  terribly  unsettled,  haggard  look  upon 
liim.  Was  he  safe  to  leave  alone?  She  would  have  no  mis- 
givings about  him  when  he  was  fairly  started  on  a  journey,  with 
Lucy  at  the  end  of  it.  That  would  be  to-morrow.  He  would 
write  for  the  evening  post  to-night,  and  would  follow  his  letter 
in  the  morning.  But  how  about  the  remainder  of  to-day?  Well 
— he  might  go  for  a  walk,  as  he  did  yesterday.  He  would  be  safe 
walking  about  as  long  as  it  was  daylight.  Or  he  might  go  up 
to  town,  to  his  place  of  business  in  Lincoln's  Inn  Fields,  or  to 
his  chambers.  But  suppose  he  went  to  the  latter,  now  the  very 
essence  of  loneliness !  Would  he  be  safe  there.,  in  the  dark  by 
himself,  with  a  razor? 

She  had  an  idea  that  would  prevent  that.  The  next  time  the 
conversation  admitted  it,  she  developed  that  idea.  "  I  really 
ought  to  be  getting  on  my  way  now,"  said  she,  "  after  saying 
they  were  to  expect  me  at  lunch.  Papa's  at  home  to-day,  and  he 
is  a  fidget  and  a  half,  I  can  tell  you.  You  are  just  a  born  angel 
compared  to  him.  ..." 
"A  what?" 

"  A  born  angel.  If  one  is  five  minutes  late,  he  can't  keep  his 
hair  on.  .  .  .  No — really  I'm  serious !  .  .  .  Well — you  know 
Mrs.  Gorhambury  took  up  her  bed  and  walked — as  least,  she 
ivalked.  Anne  told  her  some  nonsense  about  you,  and  it  gave 
her  a  start.  I  wouldn't  trust  her  not  to  have  a  relapse.  Miracu- 
lous cures  do.  Now,  I  should  be  much  comfortabler  if  you  would 
promise  to  stop  here  to-night,  and  not  go  up  to  town." 


532  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

"  Don't  see  why.  But  cither  way  will  do  for  me.  Oh  yes, 
I'll  promise,  since  you  wish  it." 

"  I  shall  be  much  more  easy  in  my  mind  about  the  King,  if 
you  do.  Now  I'm  going  up  to  have  another  touching  farewell 
of  his  Majesty,  and  then  off  I  go,  and  precious  late  I  am !  " 

"  I'll  come  and  have  a  look  at  his  Most  Gracious,  myself." 
So  Charles  followed  Nancy  up  to  the  nursery.  The  monarch 
was  in  a  most  favourable  mood,  talking  to  himself  in  a  language 
whose  alphabet  was  very  easy  to  say,  as  it  consisted  only  of  L 
and  G.  Twenty-six  letters  are  needed  to  spell  English,  but  then 
consider  what  a  quantity  of  nonsense  is  talked  in  that  language. 
Could  it  manage  with  fewer?  Is  there  anywhere — in  four-di- 
mensional space,  for  instance — a  tongue  wdiose  alphabet  has  a 
thousand  letters  ?     What  a  chance  for  the  Press,  if  there  is ! 

That  such  a  current  of  thought  as  this  should  pass  through 
Charles's  mind — for  of  course  that  is  where  the  story  sees  it — 
was  nowise  strange,  if  their  observation  is  true  who  ascribe  to 
moments  of  the  gravest  trial  and  tension  a  special  bias  to  all 
that  is  odd  and  grotesque  in  thought,  or  merely  trivial.  To  be 
dramatically  correct,  Charles's  dominant  image  of  his  son  and 
heir  should  have  connected  itself  inseparably  with  that  of  his 
mother.  Instead  of  that,  it  really  seemed  as  though  an  impres- 
sion of  Nancy's  was  well  founded,  that  the  more  he  saw  of  the 
baby  the  less  he  would  fret  over  her  absence.  The  fact  was  that 
his  son's  powerful  individuality  was  already  asserting  itself, 
though  encumbered  by  the  abundance  of  its  incarnation.  It 
may  be  that  very  few  or  none  of  the  actions  or  motives  at- 
tributed to  him  by  his  retinue  were  grounded  on  facts — such, 
for  instance,  as  that  he  had  been  asking  all  the  morning  for  his 
papa,  to  show  him  his  new  toof — but  it  was  certain  that  when 
he  was  opposed  in  the  minutest  particular  he  showed  a  very  bad 
temper  indeed — roaring,  Mrs.  Gorhambury  said,  like  a  bull,  and 
never  giving  over  not  till  you  let  him  have  his  way,  if  it  was 
ever  so.  On  such  occasions  it  was  difficult  to  dissociate  the 
heavenly  smile  which  illuminated  his  incipient  countenance  from 
some  equivalent  of  gratification  at  success.  This  and  similar 
phenomena  had  contributed  to  the  formation  of  a  belief  in  his 
father's  mind  that  he  really  was  a  person  on  his  own,  however 
crude  his  character  might  be. 

Therefore  his  lady  friend  Miss  Fraser  felt  much  better  satis- 
lied  that  Mr.  Snaith  should  remain  on  at  The  Cedars  during  her 
absence — for  she  was  meaning  to  ride  over  next  day — than  that 
he  should  go  away,  with  this  nightmare  doubt  about  the  future 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  533 

upon  him,  to  Heaven  knows  what  degree  of  loneliness  and  con- 
sequent depression  at  his  chambers.  She  really  felt  almost 
cheerful  about  him  as  they  parted  at  the  garden  gate.  Her  last 
word  to  him  was : — "  Now,  suppose  you  go  away  and  write  that 
letter  to  Lucy !  "  His  reply  was : — "  All  right.  Plenty  of  time 
for  that.  I  shall  put  off"  posting  it  till  the  last  minute.  I 
shouldn't  the  least  wonder  at  another  letter  coming  from  her — 
and  her  coming  after  it.  Ta-ta !  "  He  watched  the  rider  till 
she  vanished  with  a  loud  stroke  of  the  bell  at  a  turning,  and 
then  went  straight  away  to  his  writing-desk  and  began  his 
letter. 

Contrition.  How  could  he  blame  himself  enough  for  his  im- 
patience ?  It  was  all  his  fault  and  none  of  hers.  He  only  asked 
to  be  forgiven  and  taken  into  favour  again.  He  could  not  bring 
himself  to  believe — how  was  it  possible  that  he  should  do  so  ? — 
that  her  letter  was  in  earnest.  He  would  not  discuss  it  nor  show 
it  to  her  mother.  It  would  be  an  injustice  to  her  that  he  should 
do  so.  He  would  not,  in  fact,  take  it  seriously.  At  this  point  in 
his  own  letter  he  felt  an  uncomfortable  misgiving  that  he  was 
overstating  the  degree  to  which  he  was  able  to  shut  his  eyes,  and 
drew  out  the  letter  to  reread. 

But  then — consider  what  he  had  just  written!  He  was  not 
going  to  take  it  seriously.  Then,  why  reread  it?  Why  think 
about  its  contents  at  all,  when  to  admit  them  to  his  mind  was 
to  treat  as  a  possibility  the  idea  that  this  wife  whom  he  idolized — 
this  woman  for  whom-  his  love  was  as  the  core  of  his  whole  soul 
— did  -not  love  him,  had  never  loved  him  ?  If  that  were  to  be 
true,  what  was  left  for  him  but  death — death  by  his  own  hand? 
He  looked  that  contingency  in  the  face  without  emotion,  witliout 
a  shudder.  It  w^ould  simply  be  a  sequel,  far  less  terrible  to  him 
than  its  antecedent  cause.  Why,  then,  indulge  for  a  moment  the 
idea  that  such  a  letter  could  be  in  earnest?  Suppose  it  real,  how 
could  he  face  life,  after  such  an  experience?  He  could  face 
death. 

That  very  nice  girl  who  had  just  gone — by  the  way,  what  a 
jolly  shame  it  was  of  him  and  Fred  to  speak  of  her  always  as 
"Elbows"! — slie  would  tell  him  suicide  was  cowardice.  He 
could  see  a  mental  image  of  that  frank  serious  face,  could  mark 
the  unfaltering  decision  of  those  lips  that  said  it.  But  what 
would  it  matter,  then,  whether  it  was  cowardice  or  courage? 
^NTothing  would  matter !  Oblivion  is  feelingless,  and  Death  is 
Oblivion. 

He   wavered  half  a   moment   witli   that  hateful,   or  merely 


534  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

ludicrous,  letter  in  his  hand;  then  lit  a  Vesta  match,  the 
smoker's  resource,  never  out  of  reach.  Was  ho  right?  He 
could  blow  it  out  still?  .  .  .  No — he  was  quite  right,  and  the 
letter  was  burning.  He  placed  the  cigar  tray  on  a  big  red  book 
that  was  lying  on  the  desk,  which  he  recognised  as  the  Conti- 
nental Bradshaw  he  and  Lucy  had  managed  to  leave  behind  when 
they  started.     One  always  leaves  something  behind. 

There!  Half  of  the  letter  was  cinder,  and  he  felt  happier 
already.  Now  three-fourths  was  gone,  now  four-fifths.  And 
now  nothing  was  left  of  it  but  what  his  fingers  held — the  fag-end 
he  dropped  in  the  cigar  tray  that  they  might  not  be  burned. 
"\^nien  the  very  very  last  combustible  scrap  was  a  sparkless  ash, 
his  breath  came  freer,  and  he  turned  to  finish  his  own  letter  to 
Lucy. 

He  put  dots  to  express  this  incendiarism,  and  continued : — 
"  That  means  I  have  burned  it.  What  less  could  I  do,  when 
every  scrap  of  me  is  made  up  of  denial  of  its  possibilit}' — is  in 
revolt  against  every  word  it  contains,  and  condemns  its  absurdity  ? 
Dearest,  dearest  love,  if  what  you  say  were  true — if  I  could 
dream  that  your  love  for  me  had  never  been  other  than  luke- 
warm at  the  best,  that  would  be  the  end  of  everything  for  me. 
I  tell  you  I  should  kill  myself.  But  I  don't  believe  you — that's 
flat !  This  letter  will  go  by  the  afternoon  post  and  I  shall  follow 
it  next  day  at  the  latest.  I  have  thought  it  best,  being  here,  to 
see  Trymer  in  case  he  has  anything  to  say  to  me.  I  might  have 
seen  him  yesterday,  but  really  I  want  a  few  hours  to  get  settled  in 
before  talking  business.  Remember  that  for  anything  I  knew 
something  might  have  happened  to  you.  In  fact,  I  have  been 
very  anxious  about  you — that's  the  truth!  I  shall  telegraph  (I 
have  just  this  moment  seen  the  need  for  doing  so)  to  say  I  am 
writing,  and  I  shall  come  straight  to  your  hotel  confident  of 
finding  you.     Till  then  good-bye  !  " 

He  did  not  mean  to  see  Trymer,  nor  was  it  necessary.  The 
merest  put-off,  that  she  might  get  a  letter  from  him  before  his 
arrival !  He  did  not  analyse  the  whole  of  his  motives,  perhaps 
lest  he  should  find  that  one  of  them  was  a  fear  that  she  might  be 
in  earnest  after  all.  In  that  improbable  contingency,  surely  it 
would  be  generous  to  help  her  to  avoid  a  useless  and  painful  in- 
terview. And  prudence  always  makes  allowance  for  evei'ij  con- 
tingency, however  improbable. 

His  letter  finished,  he  was  somewhat  at  a  loss  what  to  do ;  or, 
rather,  what  to  pretend  to  do.  For  his  head  was  too  dizzy  for 
any  real  employment.     He  went  up  to  the  nursery,  to  enjoy  its 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  535 

present  lord  and  master,  and  further  his  views,  if  possible.  But 
Master  Charles  was  out  in  his  pram,  taking  the  air.  Not  the 
whole  of  the  air — only  as  much  as  suited  him.  The  capacity  of 
his  lungs  had  to  be  considered.  So  Charles  began  a  letter  to 
Fred,  telling  something,  but  not  much,  of  his  misunderstanding 
with  Lucy;  taking  the  tone  that  the  course  of  true  love  never 
did  run  smooth,  and  Life,  whatever  The  Optimist  might  say, 
could  not  be  expected  to  be  all  beer  and  skittles.  He  was  enabled 
to  make  short  work  of  this  part  of  his  story  by  giving  a  full 
account  of  the  fortnight  they  had  spent  in  Normandy  before  go- 
ing to  Paris.  Such  a  delicious  time  that  had  been !  And  to 
have  it  end  in  such  a  dismal  fiasco  as  this !  He  was  far  from 
sure  Fred  would  ever  get  this  letter;  as,  if  not  already  on  his  way 
back  to  England,  he  would  be  very  shortly.  In  fact,  it  was 
rather  a  problem  where  to  direct  it,  as  he  really  did  not  know 
where  Fred  was.  The  hostess  of  the  hotel  Fred  and  his  mother 
had  just  left  in  Paris,  the  day  before  his  own  arrival  there  with 
Lucy,  had  been  told  to  forward  letters  to  the  Hotel  Washington 
at  Lugano.  Should  he,  or  should  he  not,  direct  to  that  hotel? 
For  some  reason  unknown,  it  seemed  to  him  an  improbable  hotel 
per  se,  not  one  that  a  matter-of-fact  tourist  would  go  to,  to  stop 
at.  Much  more  like  one  that  French  esprit,  which  was  visible 
in  every  fluctuation  of  that  hostess's  countenance,  would  invent 
rather  than  not  answer  an  enquiry.  Why  Charles  discredited 
this  hotel  is  not  known  to  the  story ;  it  was  most  likely  only  due 
to  the  state  of  his  mind.  But  the  fact  remains,  and  also  its 
immediate  consequence.  He  took  the  cigar  ash-pan  off  the  Con- 
tinental Bradshaw,  and  opened  that  work  at  a  particular  page, 
after  an  Index  hunt. 

Yes — he  was  right.  Lugano  and  Lucerne  were  not  a  thousand 
miles  apart — quite  the  reverse !  This  merely  follows  Charles's 
reflections ;  it  does  not  justify  the  form  they  took.  His  impres- 
sion of  their  distance  had  been  due  to  the  fact  that  they  began 
with  the  same  two  letters.  \Vliat  could  possess  two  lakes,  so 
near  one  another,  both  to  begin  with  Lu?  If  one  of  them  had 
been  in  China  now,  it  would  not  have  mattered  how  much  alike 
the  names  were. 

But,  being  so  near,  an  idea  occurred  to  Charles.  The  way 
from  Lucerne  to  Italy  was  through  this  very  selfsame  Lugano. 
So  Bradshaw  said.  And  Lucy  had  always  harked  back  on  some 
memories  of  a  portion  of  her  childhood  passed  in  Florence,  years 
ago.  In  fact,  a  vague  ultimate  trip  to  Florence  had  formed  part 
of  their  recent  programme — time  permitting,  of  course.      What 


53G  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

more  likely  than  a  bias  in  that  direction  on  her  part?     It  would 
account  for  Lucerne,  at  any  rate. 

He  had  written  to  the  end  of  his  paper  to  Fred,  and  was  going 
to  consign  it  to  its  envelope  when  this  idea  crossed  his  mind.  It 
was  worth  a  double  postage  to  add  a  postscript,  and  he  started  it 
on  a  fresh  sheet,  as  follows : 

"  P.S.  Just  got  a  notion !  I  didn't  mention  that  the  missus 
had  deserted  me  and  miffed  off  in  an  opposite  direction.  I 
didn't  do  this  because  I  regarded  the  whole  thing  as  unreal — a 
flash  in  the  pan;  but  all  my  fault,  mind  you!  I  add  this  P.S. 
with  a  purpose.  Lucy  writes  from  Lucerne.  I  see  from  Brad- 
shaw  that  Lugano  is  a  very  good  stopping-place  on  the  line  to 
Florence  and  Eome.  And  if  my  surmise  is  right,  she  is  making 
for  Florence — and  nothing  is  more  likely  than  that  she  should 
eome  across  you  and  your  mother  en  voyage.  If  this  happens, 
what  seems  to  me  most  advisable  will  be  for  neither  you  nor  your 
mother  to  show  any  surprise  at  her  appearance,  but  wire  at  once 
to  the  last  address  I  have  sent  5^ou,  to  tell  me  where  she  is,  and 
I  will  come  immediately.  I  know  you  will  be  able  to  keep  her 
till  I  can  join  you,  and  then  perhaps  we  could  all  go  on  to  Italy 
together.  You  can't  be  in  any  great  hurry  to  come  back.  Do 
do  this  for  me,  dear  old  boy,  and  whatever  you  do  dont  hlame 
Lucy.  The  thing  was  absolutely  my  fault,  as  you  will  see  when 
I  give  you  the  story  in  full,  viva  voce.  Grant  that  her  attitude 
on  the  subject  is  a  little  jrealcish,  only  don't  condemn  her  until 
you  have  heard  from  my  own  lips  how  I  have  misbehaved.  I 
must  tell  you  that  I  have  torn  her  letter  up,  as  it  seemed  to  me 
that  it  contained  things  she  could  not  have  meant. 

"  I  have  wired  and  written  to  her  at  Lucerne,  telling  her  that 
I  shall  join  her  there  to-morrow.  If  this  reaches  you  there- 
abouts, you  may  conclude  I  am  at  the  Hotel  d'Europe  there — 
till  further  notice." 

His  mistrust  of  his  powers  of  finding  or  fabricating  excuses 
for  what  he  called  Lucy's  freakish  conduct  kept  him  rather  silent 
about  details,  all  through  this  letter;  and  it  did  not  satisfy  him. 
But  he  could  not  think  of  anything  better  to  say,  and  the  idea 
of  rewriting  a  letter  to  Fred  quarrelled  with  his  pen.  So  he 
ended  by  doing  what  so  many  of  us  have  done  under  the  same 
circumstances — enveloped  it  because  he  had  written  it,  directed 
it  because  he  had  enveloped  it,  and  stamped  it  because  he  had 
directed  it.  Then  it  liad  to  go.  A  letter  acquires  a  certain  self- 
assertion  when  melloAv.     Nothing  is  then  wanting  but  the  postal 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  537 

stamp,  compared  to  which  Destiny  is  mere  vaciihition.  Charles 
felt  impatient  of  the  presence  of  these  two  letters,  staring  at  him 
reproachfully  from  the  letter-rack  with  an  inscription  on  it  "  For 
the  Post !  "  So  he  took  them  himself  to  the  Chemist's  and 
Druggist's  down  the  road,  wavered  an  instant  before  the  official 
slot  that  yawned  laterally  for  them,  laughed  at  his  irresolution, 
and  thrust  them  in.  Now  they  would  go,  come  what  might !  He 
felt  happier,  as  though  he  had  done  something.  Well — what  else 
was  there  to  do? 

He  walked  back  slowly  to  The  Cedars,  thinking — thinking  of 
the  Past.  How  unlike  the  Present  was — this  Present — to  the 
vague  Future  that  had  been  foreseen  by  him  and  Fred  that  first 
time  that  he  visited  the  house !  Where  was  that  scheme  of  a 
double  household  now?  Where  was  the  bride  that  was  to  have 
been  Fred's?  A  female  Analytical  Chemist,  the  step-parent  of 
several  small  Analytical  Chemists,  male  and  female;  and  the  di- 
rect parent — so  Miss  Xancy  Fraser  had  told  him — of  one  whom 
she  had  added  to  their  number,  like  a  Committee  with  powers ! 
How  funny  it  seemed  that  this  jSTancy  Fraser,  who  had  assumed 
quite  a  new  identity  to  Charles,  should  be  the  sister  of  that 
Cintra  of  Mrs.  Hopkinson's  Cinderella,  over  three  years  since; 
whom  Fred  raved  about  for  a  term,  as  long  as  he  adored  her, 
and  by  whom  he  was  ultimately  abruptly  cancelled,  for  Heaven 
knows  what  reason.  What  icas  the  story  of  that  affair,  Charles 
wondered?  He  knew  or  guessed  this  much,  that  the  pair  had 
been  led  to  discover  their  indifference  to  one  another  owing  to 
some  jealous  tiff  on  the  part  of  the  lady.  "  Some  other  girl  in 
that  business!"  said  he  to  himself.  Who  was  that  other  girl? 
Very.likely  Fred  would  have  told  him  all  about  it  if  he  had  asked 
him.  But  he  had  never  pressed  him  on  the  subject.  Would  it 
have  been  fair  to  do  so? 

Well — it  was  all  forgotten  now ! — a  thing  of  the  past.  But  it 
had  left  a  residuum — Elbows.  And  with  it  remorse  in  Charles's 
inner  consciousness  that  he  and  Fred  should  have  chosen  such  a 
disparaging  nickname  for  her.  Now,  that  showed  Lucy's  pene- 
tration. Trust  a  clever  woman's  sagacity  in  these  things. 
"  Why  " — she  had  said — "  must  Fred  want  to  marry  that  stupid 
sister,  when  such  a  nice  girl  as  that  was  vacant  ? "  Charles 
wondered  why,  now.  He  supposed  Lucy  was  right,  and  men 
were  the  slaves  of  mere  beaut}^  Of  course  Cintra  was  the  better 
looking  of  the  two.  .  .  .  Stop  a  moment! — was  she?  His 
memory  had  kept  a  spare  corner  for  the  gravity  of  Nancy's  face 
when  she  said  that  her  imskilfulncs?  in  telling  lies  was  a  caution 


538  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

for  snakes.     He  utilised  it  to  throw  doubt  on  Cintra's  superiority, 
successfully. 

It  was  a  satisfaction  to  him  to  dwell  on  those  b3^gones,  to  take 
his  mind  off  the  torture  of  the  present.  He  did  it  mechanically, 
in  self-defence.  Behind  it  was  the  shadow — the  home  without  a 
mistress  that  he  was  approaching.  But  courage ! — courage ! 
Only  a  few  hours  more,  and  he  would  be  on  his  way  to  Lucy ! 
Why — by  this  time  to-morrow  he  would  be  across  the  Channel ; 
or  at  Dover,  anyhow.  He  would  have  begun  a  journey  that  was 
to  end  in  Lucy. 

But  suppose  that  she  .  .  .  Oh,  rubbish? — the  thing  was 
impossible.  He  flung  the  idea  from  him  indignantly,  that  she 
really  meant  that  odious  letter.  "What  would  the  misgivings  of 
his  secret  self  ask  him  to  believe  next  ? 

Much  pleasanter  now,  as  M^ell  as  more  commonsense-rife,  to 
pooh-pooh  the  preposterous  notion;  at  any  rate  till  she,  his  wife, 
the  mother  of  his  child,  met  his  eyes  with  the  harsh  indifference 
that  letter  laid  claim  to  on  her  behalf.  Suppose  that  unnatural 
absurdity  to  be  actual,  what  would  come  next?  Well — for  choice 
— a  leap  over  a  ship's  counter  into  its  track  of  white  sea-foam, 
with  pockets  full  of  shot.  For  mere  handiness,  without  regard 
to  the  inconvenience  a  slovenly  unwholesome  corpse  would  oc- 
casion to  his  survivors,  sixpennyworth  of  potassic  cyanide, 
which  would  have  been  cyanide  of  potassium  wlien  he  was 
young,  which  could  be  obtained  easily  of  any  dealer  in  photo- 
graphic chemicals.  H  was  highly  recommended  for  purposes  of 
suicide,  and  there  was  only  one  way  of  using  it.  A  great  advan- 
tage that,  over  the  bare  bodkin  Hamlet  talked  so  confidently 
about. 

Tush — he  was  laughing  at  his  own  folly !  It  wasn't  going  to 
come  to  that,  but  to  joint  laughter  of  Lucy  and  himself  at  their 
two  absurdities;  to  the  lips  and  eyes  and  warm  embrace  of  recon- 
ciliation. And  then  she,  Lucy,  could  pour  out  gratitude  without 
reserve  at  the  feet  of  that  good  creature — she  ivas  a  good  creature 
— who  had  been  such  a  help  to  him  when  that  detestable  letter 
had  to  be  read ;  who  had  produced  her  Aunt  Csecilia's  "  mental 
alienation  "  with  such  promptitude.  Charles  would  be  grateful 
to  Nancy  all  the  days  of  his  life  for  "  mental  alienation."  But 
he  couldn't  kiss  her,  and  call  her  a  darling,  for  it.  Luce  could. 
.    .    .   By-the-bye,  what  is  mental  alienation  ? 

Was  mental  alienation  the  undefined  agency  that  caused  poor 
old  Stultifex  ]\Iaximus  to  wander  away,  up  this  very  lane,  to 
Heaven  knows  where?     That  was  a  strange  story.     That  a  man 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  539 

in  the  prime  of  life — the  prime  of  his  life,  though  maybe  the 
ending  stage  of  a  lesser  man's — should  suddenly  vanish  away  like 
Waring,  who  gave  us  all  the  slip?  And  this  too  when  his  alter- 
native of  land-travel  or  sea-faring  was  not  the  aimless  pacing  up 
and  down  of  London  town,  but  the  business  of  the  busiest  of 
men,  the  absorption  and  fascination  of  the  human  gardener's 
work,  the  intense  responsibility  of  giving  to  each  human  twig 
its  bent,  that  was  to  make  the  inclination  of  a  great  forest  tree 
half  a  century  hence !  Fancy  that  swarm  of  boys  on  the  watch 
for  him,  only  two  days  later ! 

Observe  that  the  belief  in  Charles's  mind  was  deep-rooted  that 
the  murder,  or  other  violent  death,  of  Dr.  Carteret  might  be 
crossed  off  the  possibilities.  It  would  have  been  found  out  long 
ago,  in  practice — that  was  the  reply  to  any  such  suggestion.  It 
was  true  that  even  Scotland  Yard  could  not  prove  a  negative, 
but  we  had  to  be  content  with  something  short  of  proof  absolute, 
every  day.  He  was  satisfied,  anyhow ;  though  as  for  being  satis- 
fied that  the  old  gentleman  would  return,  that  was  a  thing  about 
which  no  man  could  prophesy. 

A  perambulator,  wheeled  by  a  nursemaid,  who  was  acting  as 
interpreter  for  its  occupant;  who,  if  he  had  really  expressed 
pleasure  at  the  sight  of  his  papa,  had  done  it  in  the  alphabetically 
limited  tongue  the  story  has  referred  to.  Tilly  Slowboy  was  in 
charge  alone,  for  the  miraculous  cure  had  not  undertaken  to  last 
if  the  lumbago  patient  ran  any  risks.  Being  unchecked  by  the 
presence  of  an  Authority,  the  young  lady  ventured  on  a  trans- 
lation of  what  seemed  only  a  gurgle  or  splutter,  to  the  effect  that 
Master  Charles  had  expressed  a  wish  to  be  took  out  of  his  pram 
and  carried  by  his  pa. 

Charles  accepted  this  exegesis  as  sound,  and  his  burden  de- 
voted itself,  or  himself,  to  interpreting  his  bearer's  eyesight  and 
compromising  his  own  security.  He  seemed  greatly  pleased  with 
his  father's  protest : — "  I  say,  young  man,  if  you  go  on  jobbing 
me  in  the  eye  like  that,  I  shall  tumble  into  the  gutter  and  you'll 
be  killed !  " 

"  I  declare  now,"  said  the  nursemaid  just  after  their  arrival 
at  the  house,  "  if  that  blessed  child  isn't  trying  to  read  his  pa's 
letters !  "  He  may  have  been,  but  he  had  never  learned  to  read, 
and  a  bystander  unaccustomed  to  children  might  have  supposed 
he  was  "trying  to  stuff  them  down  his  throat.  The  post  had  oc- 
curred in  Charles's  absence,  and  had  shed  letters.  A  flash  of 
momentary  hope  crossed  his  mind  that  one  of  them  might  be 
from  Lucy  in  a  repentant  mood — a  revise  of  her  former  letter. 


540  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

Ikit  as  soon  as  Miss  Slowboy,  in  response  to  his: — "Here — eatcli 
hold  of  this  cliap,"  had  disencumbered  him  of  Master  Charles,  he 
had  to  face  another  disappointment.  There  was  no  letter — only 
picture-books  of  cigar-boxes,  and  facsimiles  of  Dukes'  signatures 
to  appeals  for  cash. 

However,  it  was  one  o'clock,  and  luncheon,  however  irksome 
in  profound  solitude,  marked  a  bygone  episode,  and  sighted  the 
end  of  another.  What  could  he  do  with  this  interregnum  of  a 
few  hours  that  would  skip  by  so  quickly  if  he  wanted  them  to 
stop?  Go  for  a  walk? — Yes^  that  was  the  safest  course  open  to 
him.  He  had  made  up  his  mind  not  to  see  his  mother-in-law — 
not  on  her  merits ;  polite  usage  demanded  that  he  should  conceal 
a  personal  sentiment — but  because  he  felt  that,  short  of  mental 
alienation,  he  was  not  bound  to  take  her  into  his  confidence  about 
a  fit  of  ijique  of  her  daughter's.  That  was  it — a  fit  of  pique! 
But  observe ! — more  than  half  the  blame  of  it  was  his.  She  was 
human ;  but  not  culpable,  thank  you  ! 

As  for  the  bare  possibility  that  she  was  in  earnest,  it  had 
crossed  his  mind  a  few  hours  since  certainly,  but  by  now  it  had 
made  up  its  own  not  to  do  so  again.  And  it  should  cross  no 
other  mind  than  his — at  least  as  a  consequence  of  any  confi- 
dences from  him  about  that  letter  he  had  torn  up.  The  thing 
should  be  buried  out  of  sight,  and  forgotten. 

He  went  for  a  long  walk,  to  kill  as  much  time  as  possible.  He 
was  better  losing  his  way  in  country  lanes — you  can  do  so  still 
within  five-and-twenty  miles  of  Charing  Cross — than  in  brooding 
over  his  anxieties  at  home.  If  he  could  have  relied  upon  his 
son's  company  he  would  have  fallen  back  upon  it,  as  that  young 
man's  views  of  life  pleased  him.  Everything,  according  to 
Master  Charles,  was  either  the  best  of  jokes  or  the  deadliest  of 
injuries,  which  a  man  of  his  inches  could  only  resent  by  becoming 
a  mere  mass — however  small — of  crumpled  fury,  and  hitting  out 
right  and  left  at  space. 

The  image  of  the  young  gentleman,  carried  upstairs  in  this 
latter  mood  by  Miss  Slowboy,  soothed  his  father  through  many 
miles  of  country  lanes  and  field  paths,  and  still  dominated  him 
when  he  returned  home  over  three  hours  after  he  started.  He 
treasured,  behind  this  image  a  hope  that  the  first  voice  that 
would  greet  his  return  would  be  hers — that  baby's  mother's — a 
welcome  arrival  in  his  absence,  having  had  a  repentant  fit  and 
started  for  home  a  few  hours  after  posting  that  ridiculous  letter. 
The  hope  became,  as  he  walked  up  the  gravel  road  to  the  house, 
a  fear  that  nothing  so  good  as  that  was  in  store  for  him;  and 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  541 

later  on,  after  a  doorstep  pause  with  his  ears  painfully  on  the 
alert,  a-  certainty  to  that  effect.  So  he  had  to  pretend  that  no 
such  anticipation  had  ever  o:erminated. 

No  member  of  the  household  saw  him  return,  because  it  con- 
sisted, so  far  as  he  was  concerned  when  he  was  replacing  his 
'  Panama  hat  on  its  peg,  and  his  stick  in  the  stand  below  it,  of 
(  remote  voices  in  the  kitchen  and  nursery.  He  passed  unnoticed 
;  into  the  smoking-room,  and  sank  back  on  the  couch  on  which, 
only  this  morning,  he  had  been  as  unconscious  as  a  stone,  and 
had  come  back  to  a  ])ainful  consciousness  in  time  to  avert  a  visit 
from  the  doctor.  He  felt  none  the  worse  for  that  occurrence 
physically,  but  his  head  swam,  and  he  mistrusted  his  judg- 
ment. 

Sometimes,  when  one's  brain  gets  clouded  in  this  way,  it  is 
a  relief  to  find  some  simple  thing  tliat  wants  doing,  that  one 
may,  by  doing  it,  get  into  touch  with  current  event  again.  Such 
a  thing  presented  itself  to  Charles — that  Continental  Bradshaw 
which  ought  to  have  travelled  with  them  to  Paris!  It  should  go 
there  to-morrow,  anyhow.  A  vision  of  Lucy  and  himself,  recon- 
ciled like  the  couple  in  DivorQons,  taking  a  little  dinner  d& 
noces  at  the  Europe  at  Lucerne — or  even  better,  at  Lugano  with 
Fred  and  his  mother — passed  across  the  proscenium  of  his  intelli- 
gence. He  picked  the  book  up,  and  carried  it  towards  his  room, 
explicitly  to  add  it  to  the  contents  of  a  small  handbag  of  after- 
maths which  he  was  scheming  to  carry  with  him  next  da3^  It 
would  be  the  text-book  of  that  banquet — would  suggest  the  when 
and  where  of  next  day's  Journey. 

The  young  woman,  Anne,  was  passing  down  from  the  nursery 
with  a  milk  Jug,  probably  to  renew  the  supply  Master  Charles 
spent  time,  that  could  not  possibly  have  been  better  employed,  in 
assimilating.  Anne  always  resorted  to  a  sort  of  chromatic  scale 
when  she  addressed  gentlemen,  which  expressed — suppose  we  say  ? 
— a  readiness  for  appreciation,  but  is  itself  impossible  to  any 
known  calligraphy  or  printing-type.  The  reader  must  imagine 
it  prefaced  to  her  remark  to  her  master,  as  she  saw  him  emerge 
from  his  private  sanctum,  bearing  the  Continental  Bradshaw: — 
"  Haven't  you  seen  the  gentleman,  Sir?" 

"I?     I  haven't  seen  any  gentleman.     What  gentleman  ?  " 

"  In  the  setting-room.  .  .  .  The  gentleman  in  the  setting- 
room.  Only  he  wasn't  showed  in  by  me,  so  I  couldn't  say.  I 
only  come  upon  him,  as  you  might  say." 

"  What  sort  of  gentleman  ?  "  Charles's  liand  was  too  near  the 
handle  of  the  door  where  the  gentleman  was  for  this  to  be  a 

3') 


542  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

reasonable  question.  But  it  arose  out  of  the  previous  conver- 
sation. 

Anne  stoppjed  a  moment  to  consider  how  she  could  make  her 
reply  distinguished,  and  show  a  wide  range  of  social  information ; 
then  replied : — "  A  gentleman  in  horders."  Her  pride  in  this 
way  of  describing  a  clergyman  resulted  in  a  powerful  aspirate  on 
the  initial  of  the  last  word.  Charles  remembered  that  ho  had  a 
pound  in  gold  in  his  pocket.  This  parson  could  only  mean  sub- 
scriptions. He  felt  his  coat  outside,  and  decided  that  he  was 
safe.  He  could  face  the  local  curate  whom  he  anticipated,  with 
the  consciousness  of  such  a  coin  available. 

The  curate  he  anticipated  was  a  small  man,  meek  and  pink. 
So  unlike  the  man  that  he  expected  was  the  one  that  was  wait- 
ing to  see  him,  that  he  could  not  have  discarded  at  a  moment's 
notice  the  words  ready  for  utterance  on  his  tongue,  and  found 
others  to  meet  the  position,  even  had  there  been  no  other  be- 
wildering circumstance  in  his  identity.  But  that  this  man  of 
all  others  should  be  actually  standing  there  before  his  eyes  .   .   .  ! 

^Yas  it  real? — that  was  his  first  thought.  Was  it  not  some 
hallucination  of  his  own  brain,  at  odds  with  reality  after  that 
overwhelming  experience  of  the  morning?  Was  it  not  delusion 
pure  and  simple,  this  image  of  an  old  divine,  broad-chested  and 
strong  of  limb,  straight  as  an  arrow  for  all  that — unless  his 
white  hairs  belied  him — his  years,  weighing  heavily  on  a  weaker 
constitution,  would  have  meant  a  hundred  infirmities,  or  decrepi- 
tude outright?  Was  it  not  more  likely  that  Charles,  wrought  to 
the  extremest  tension  first  by  his  anxiety  about  his  wife's  safety, 
and  then  by  the  contents  of  the  letter  that  had  ended  it,  should 
go  clean  off  his  head  and  become  the  victim  of  a  delusion  than 
that  his  old  master,  old  Stultifex  Maximus — he  remembered  him 
well,  though  he  had  scarcely  seen  him  since  schooldays — should 
reappear  inexplicably,  after  being  despaired  of,  for  two  years? 
He  knew  that  he  himself  had  always  predicted  this,  but  when  it 
came,  its  strangeness  almost  stunned  him. 

The  only  words  he  could  find  were : — "  Good  God — Dr. 
Carteret !  "  He  would  have  liked  the  grasp  of  his  extended 
hand  to  make  good  by  its  cordiality  the  defect  of  welcoming 
speech.  But  the  old  gentleman  seemed  to  shrink  from  his  touch 
- — in  fact,  placed  his  own  right  hand  without  disguise  behind  his 
back. 

"  Yes,  Snaith — Dr.  Carteret.  .  .  .  Excuse  me.  Do  as  I  tell 
you,  and  ask  no  questions.  The  time  will  come  for  explanation 
later.     For  the  present,  let  me  ask  you  to  be  content  without — 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  543 

without  touching  me,  in  short.  Treat  it  as  a  whim  if  you  will, 
and  a  strange  one,  but  let  me  have  my  way.  Is  that  under- 
stood?" 

He  was  mad  of  course,  and  the  whole  thing  was  accounted 
for.  So  Charles  said  to  himself.  But  our  schoolmasters  remain 
our  schoolmasters  to  the  end.  He  felt  that  it  was  not  for  him 
to  dispute  the  fiat  of  Stultifex  Maximus,  mad  or  sane.  He 
spoke  for  a  scattered  host  of  fellow-schoolboys  at  Yexton  when 
he  replied : — "  Your  will  is  our  law,  Sir.  We  don't  question — 
we  obey."  Any  one  of  that  host  would  have  said  the  same. 
Charles  had  a  half-laugh  for  the  position,  but  he  spoke  in  good 
faith,  for  all  that. 

The  old  gentleman — one  thing  was  evident ;  he  was  perfectly 
harmless — seemed  pleased.  "  I  am  glad  to  see  that  you  remember 
the  old  days,  Snaith,"  said  he.  He  then  went  on  talking,  evi- 
dently with  regret  for  his  loss  of  the  school,  but  without  refer- 
ring to  his  inexplicable  and  needless  renunciation  of  it : — "  If 
men — men  who  have  thought  fit  to  be  the  authors  of  other  men — 
could  only  see  clearly  the  overwhelming  importance  of  every 
moment  of  boyhood  to  the  hours  and  years  of  manhood  that  are 
to  follow,  it  would  simply  change  the  race.  If  boys,  good  in 
themselves,  were  not  left  to  lie  fallow,  or  to  get  intoxicated  with 
the  taste  of  so-called  pleasure — gross  mud  honey,  Tennyson  calls 
it — they  would  grow  up  as  good  as  girls.  Men  would  be  as  good 
as  women.  You  think,  Snaith,  that  I  am  talking  professional 
shop.   ..." 

"  Not  at  all !  "  said  Charles. 

"  However,  I  was.  I  was  just  on  the  point  of  coming  to  the 
schoolmaster's  estimate  of  his  own  importance  to  the  World. 
So  it  ivas  professional  shop.  If  I  had  been  permitted  to  con- 
tinue at  the  school  for  a  while  longer  ..."  He  spoke  wist- 
fully, as  of  a  thing  to  regret. 

Now,  thought  Charles,  he  will  say  something  to  throw  a  light 
on  his  seemingly  insane  action.  He,  however,  seemed  to  become 
suddenly  silent.  A  reminder  might  keep  him  to  his  topic.  So 
Charles  said  : — "  I  understand  from  what  you  are  saying.  Doctor, 
that  you  were  under  some  compulsion  in  leaving  the  school.  I 
have  no  right  to  be  inquisitive,  but   ..." 

"  But  you  would  like  to  be  told?     Is  that  it?  " 

"  Something  of  that  sort.     Yes." 

"  You  ask  to  be  told,  in  fact." 

"  Well— I  do." 

The  firm  frown  on  the  Doctor's  brow  strengthened  slightly 


544  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

from  increased  consideration ;  his  closed  lips  met  more  decisively. 
At  last  he  spoke.  "  On  the  whole,  no !  "  said  he,  as  though 
answering  a  question  that  called  for  an  affirmative  or  negative. 
**  I  might  tell  you  something — yes !  But  enough  to  satisf}'  your 
wish  for  information — a  perfectly  natural  one,  Snaith,  a  per- 
fectly natural  one — certainly  not!  And  my  time  is  limited.  So 
I  must  beg  you  to  be  content  with  my  assurance  that  my  non- 
return to  my  duties  at  the  school " — the  sound  of  regret  came 
again  in  his  voice — "  was  not  a  matter  of  choice,  but  of  neces- 
sity.    At  that,  I  stop.     I  am  sorry." 

His  speech  was  so  clear  and  calm,  and  his  manner  so  settled 
and  decisive,  that  no  reasonable  doubt  could  remain  about  the 
diagnosis  of  his  mental  disorder.  Manifestly  one  of  those  rare 
cases  of  mind-disease  pure  and  simple,  where  autopsy  of  the 
brain  shows  no  lesion  or  disintegration  of  the  organ !  Charles 
saw  this  plainly,  and  knew  that  discussion  of  the  point  would  be 
useless.  He  had  said  he  had  a  wish  to  know,  so  he  could  not 
disclaim  curiosity.  It  was  a  case  for  glisser,  sans  s'appuyer.  So 
lie  said  lightly : — "  Never  mind !  I  shall  know  in  time,  per- 
haps." 

''In  time — perhaps!"  The  Doctor  repeated  his  words,  ac- 
centing the  last  one.  He  added  thoughtfully,  half  to  himself : — 
"  The  thing  may  remain  unknown,  for  a  very  long  time."  Then 
as  one  who  dismissed  one  subject  to  take  up  another,  he  added : — 
"  But  I  am  here  with  a  purpose.  I  wish  to  speak  to  vou  about 
Fred." 

Charles  was  glad.  He  had  felt  very  uneasy  in  many  ways 
about  Fred.  Yet  there  was  no  one  to  whom  he  could  talk  about 
Fred's  affairs  without  reserve;  unless  indeed  he  overstepped  the 
limits  that  he  conceived  Fred's  confidence  imposed  on  him.  Had 
lie  been  in  Fred's  motlier's,  he  might  have  tried  to  approach  the 
subject;  but  he  and  she  were  little  more  than  cordial  acquaint- 
ances. Xow,  here  was  a  man  of  great  weight  and  authority  with 
both  young  men,  and  somewhat  in  loco  parentis  to  one  of  them, 
who  would  be  very  likely  to  break  through  all  reserves — if  indeed 
lie  knew  anything  of  Fred's  mysterious  love-affair — and  might  in 
any  case  deal  with  the  subject  in  such  a  way  as  to  justify  allusion 
to  it.  Therefore,  Charles  was  glad,  and  met  his  visitor's  wish 
half-way.  "  It  is  very  satisfactory  to  me  to  hear  you  say  that," 
said  he.  "  For  to  tell  you  the  truth,  that  young  man  has  been 
a  source  of  anxiety  to  me.  I  think  he  wants  advice,  and  I  don't 
feel  qualified  to  speak  to  him.  .  .  .  But  I  wish.  Doctor,  you 
would  sit  down,  instead  of  standing  on  that  hearthrug.     Do  come 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  545 

in  this  armchair,  and  I  will  ring  for  some  tea,  if  you  don't  mind 
having  it  so  late."  No,  the  Doctor  would  prefer  to  take  no  tea, 
he  said. 

Nor  did  he  rise  to  an  invitation  to  remain  on  to  dinner.  Xor 
to  coffee,  nor  to  chocolate,  nor  even  to  a  cigarette.  He  would 
take  absolutely  nothing,  thank  you !  He,  however,  settled  down 
in  the  armchair,  and  Charles  was  not  sorry  to  come  to  an  anchor 
opposite  to  him,  for  his  long  walk  had  qualified  him  for  a  rest. 
He  had  some  misgiving  that  his  guest's  mind,  under  these  inter- 
ruptions, might  have  wandered  from  its  subject. 

But  it  was  set  at  rest  when  the  old  man  resumed  the  con- 
versation by  repeating  very  nearly  the  words  he  had  himself  used 
a  moment  back: — "  Fred  wants  advice,  and  you  are  not  qualified 
to  give  it.  Quite  so.  But  you  are  qualified  to  repeat  advice 
from  his  guardian.  In  fact,  I  have  a  message  to  send  to  Fred, 
touching  his  own  affairs.     You  will  give  it  him." 

"  I  can  write  it  to  him,  and  will  do  so  at  once."  And  yet, 
for  all  that  Charles's  manner  was  that  of  one  who  was  taking 
his  guest's  wish  as  a  matter  of  course,  and  could  readily  under- 
take a  mere  embassage,  he  was  in  fact  saying  to  himself: — "  How 
comes  the  old  boy  to  know  anything  of  Fred's  affairs  now?" 
What  kept  Dr.  Carteret  in  touch  with  his  own  circle,  when  every 
avenue  that  connected  it  with  the  outer  world  had  been  explored 
in  vain  to  find  a  trace  of  him  ?  What  was  the  secret  connecting 
link?  But  whatever  Charles  thought,  he  showed  no  curiosity. 
The  old  boy  was  non  compos  without  a  doubt,  and  that  would 
cover  everything. 

He,  however,  was  perfectly  sane  to  all  outward  seeming,  as  he 
went  on  to  formulate  this  message  to  Fred.  He  paused  now  and 
then  to  pick  a  word  carefully,  but  otherwise  showed  no  hesitation 
or  embarrassment.  "  You  are  already  aware,  Snaith,"  he  said, 
'•  that  my  nephew's  engagement  to  marry  of  two  years'  since  was 
broken  off  because  the  young  lady  suspected — and  with  good 
reason — that  his  affections  were  far  from  undivided?  " 

"  I  have  a  fair  insight  into  that  matter;  a  bystander's  insight. 
I  have  never  talked  to  Fred  about  it.  I  mean,  that  my  informa- 
tion comes  through  another  channel." 

"  Your  information  is  correct.  But  are  you  fully  alive  to  the 
fact  that  this  unhappy  infatuation  has  persisted — has  if  anything 
increased — during  this  last  two  years  ?  "  How  came  the  old  boy 
to  be  able  to  speak  with  such  certainty? 

Charles  was  puzzled  at  this,  as  well  he  might  be.  But  he 
.thought  it  safest  to  express  no  surprise — to  take  everything  as  a 


546  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

matter  of  course.     He  replied  : — "  Well — I  have  at  least  had  no 
reason  to  suppose  it  has  diminished." 

The  answer  came  in  the  same  quiet,  positive  way.  "  There  is 
no  reason  to  suppose  it.  You  may  rely  on  me  for  this.  Under 
these  circumstances  it  is  my  duty  to  do  all  I  can  to  avert  dis- 
astrous consequences,  and  to  help  the  poor  foolish  fellow  against 
himself." 

"  And  mine,"  said  Charles  parenthetically. 

The  old  man's  answer  was  peculiar.     "  You  can  do  nothing." 

Its  perfect  quietness,  and  the  speaker's  conviction  as  of  an 
obvious  truth,  seemed  to  imply  some  special  reason  why  Charles, 
of  all  mankind,  should  be  powerless  to  help.  Yet  he  himself 
only  saw  in  it — for  a  man  stone-blind  sees  nothing — another 
symptom  of  insanity  on  the  Doctor's  part.  To  ascertained  sanity 
he  would  have  said : — "  Why  can  I  do  nothing,  who  am  surely 
almost  Fred's  brother  ?  "  To  the  Doctor  he  only  said : — "  Per- 
haps not,"  and  let  him  continue : — "■  Except  indeed  the  thing  I 
have  come  here  to  ask  of  you.     You  can  do  that." 

Charles,  utterly  perplexed  about  what  this  was  going  to  lead 
to,  could  only  reply : — "  You  may  trust  me  to  do  anything  that 
is  within  my  power,"  and  wait. 

He  felt  more  than  ever  convinced  of  the  old  man's  insanity 
when  he  heard  his  next  words : — "  Have  )'ou  a  good  memory  ?  " 
and  saw  the  knitted  brow  and  concentrated  gaze  of  the  speaker. 
It  reminded  him  of  chance  moments  in  bygone  years — in  Vexton 
School,  in  the  old  davs. 

"  I  liave  to  have  a  good  memory.  Doctor,"  said  he.  "  It  is  a 
professional  asset.  A  solicitor  with  a  bad  memory  is  doomed  to 
failure.     I  assure  you  I  cultivate  mine.     Go  on." 

"  Try  to  remember  all  that  I  say  to  you,  and  repeat  it  to  Fred, 
as  from  me.  Never  mind  the  strangeness  of  it.  I  mean  the 
strangeness  of  my  telling  it  to  you.  You  will  come  to  under- 
stand the  reasons  of  my  doing  so,  some  time." 

Better  to  indulge  his  whim,  thought  Charles.  "  I  will  re- 
member every  word,  to  the  best  of  my  ability,"  said  he. 

"  Yes.  And  ask  for  no  explanations,  but  repeat  my  words  to 
Fred,  as  near  as  you  can."  He  made  the  pause  of  a  speaker  Avho 
leaves  further  prelude,  and  steps  to  his  main  subject.  "  It  has 
come  to  my  knowledge — never  mind  how — that  Fred  questions 
the  possibility  of  concealing  a  misplaced  passion  from  its  object. 
Well — it  has  been  done,  and  I  want  him  to  know  it.  It  would 
strengthen  him  against  himself." 

"  Very  reasonable,  Sir !     But  why  not  say  this  to  Fred  him- 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  ,  547 

self?     It  would  have  more  influence  on  him  than  coming  through 
an  intermediary." 

"  You  would  not  ask  that  question,  Snaith,  if  you  knew  all  the 
circumstances  of  the  case.  Let  me  ask  you  again  not  to  press  me 
for  details  which  I  cannot  give.  For  one  thing,  there  are  diffi- 
culties in  the  way  of  seeing  Frederic.  I  must  ask  you  to  accept 
the  fact  from  me,  without  further  explanation,  that  I  cannot 
write  to  him." 

Wliere  was  the  use  of  doing  anything  with  a  man  evidently 
insane  ?  There  could  be  no  reason  why  a  letter  should  not  carry 
a  message  as  well  as  a  messenger;  indeed  better,  for  one  takes 
a  messenger  into  confidence.  Mad,  evidently  !  Charles  hastened 
to  apologize  for  seeming  inquisitiveness.  "  I  did  not  mean  to  ask 
questions,"  he  said.  "  It  was  merely  by  way  of  suggestion.  Do 
not  let  me  interrupt  3'ou,  Sir." 

The  severe  countenance  of  the  old  School  King  relaxed  when- 
ever Charles  spoke  to  liim  as  a  pupil — for  that  was  what  his  form 
of  speech  meant — and  there  was  satisfaction  in  his  voice.  "  No 
harm,  Snaith,"  said  he.  "  I  will  go  on  and  say  what  I  have  to 
say.  My  time  is  necessarily  short,  I  am  asking  you  to  tell  Fred 
from  me  that  he  is  not  alone — very  far  from  it — in  his  .  .  . 
unhappy  entanglement  of  the  affections."  He  paused  a  moment 
to  find  the  right  phrase,  then  continued: — "  I  wish  him  to  know 
that  his  guardian  and  old  schoolmaster,  his  father's  brother — 
yes,  Snaith,  I  myself ! — lived  from  youth  to  old  age  under  the 
burden  of  a  secret  passion,  impossible  of  requital  even  if  its 
object  could  have  suspected  it.  Tell  him  that  the  birth  of  this 
passion  was  in  the  girlhood — the  childhood — of  the  woman  who 
was  to  rule  my  heart  through  life;  that  it  had  possession  of 
every  fibre  of  my  soul  long  and  long  before  the  fatal  knowledge 
came  one  day  that  it  was  hopeless  and  purposeless.  Tell  him 
that  in  its  inception  there  was  no  trace  of  guilty  intrusion  on 
the  rights  of  another,  no  shadow  of  blame  such  as  may  attach  to 
the  would-be  lover  who  seeks  to  undermine  a  woman's  pledge 
given  elsewhere.  Tell  him  that,  so  as  to  make  him  understand 
what  my  position  was.  .  .  .  You  understand  it  yourself  ?  "  He 
stopped  to  ask  this  question  abruptly  in  a  rush  of  emphatic  speech 
which  seemed  to  have  taken  possession  of  him,  rather  than  to  be 
spoken  by  him,  and  awaited  the  answer  with  knitted  brows.  It 
made  his  hearer  a  boy  again  to  see  him — a  boy  at  one  of  the  class 
exams ;  at  the  old  school  at  Vexton,  years  ago. 

But,  although  taken  aback  to  find  himself  the  recipient  of  such 
a  confidence,  coming  to  him  with  such  an  overwhelming  sudden- 


548  .  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

ness,  Charles  answered  clearly  and  directly : — "  I  understand  per- 
fectly. You  fell  in  love  with  a  very  young  girl,  and  she  came  to 
an  understanding  with  another  lover,  perhaps  before   ..." 

"  Yes — go  on." 

"...  before  you  thought  she  wa?  old  enough  to  know  any- 
thing about  such  matters.     Was  that  it?  " 

"  That  was  so,  as  you  put  it.  Make  Fred  understand  this 
clearly.  If  you  cannot  remember  my  exact  words,  give  my  mean- 
ing in  your  own.  It  may  be  more  intelligible — I  do  not  know. 
Then,  having  made  quite  sure  that  he  grasps  these  facts,  tell  him 
that  circumstances  compelled  me  to  a  forced  concealment  of  every 
feeling,  a  forced  repression  of  every  impulse,  throughout  a  long 
term  of  years — a  term  as  long  as  a  lifetime.  And  to  me  it 
was  a  lifetime — a  painful  one;  the  latter  part  of  it  worse 
than  the  first.  For,  until  that  ladv's  husband  was  taken  from 
her  ..." 

"  He  is  dead,  then  ?  " 

The  Doctor  seemed  to  pause  a  moment  before  answering: — 
"  Well — yes.  That  is  the  shortest  way  of  putting  it.  He  is 
dead.  During  his  life  on  earth,  my  love  for  him  helped  me 
against  my  love  for  his  wife,  and  I  was  able  to  feel  that  my 
self-repression  was  not  all  fruitless.  Someone  benefited  by  it. 
But  when  he  departed   ..."     He  seemed  to  hesitate. 

Charles  recalled  his  last  word,  as  a  catchword  of  speech;  but 
added  to  it,  without  thinking.  "  '  When  he  departed  this  life,'  " 
said  he,  "  how  then  ?  " 

Dr.  Carteret  appeared  to  reflect,  but  only  for  a  brief  moment. 
Then  he  said,  more  to  himself  than  to  Charles : — "  Let  it  pass." 
Then  definitely  to  Charles : — "  He  departed  from  us.  Suppose 
we  put  it  that  way !  .  .  .  Well — anyhow !  When  he  left  us, 
he  left  me  alone  with  his  still  young  wife  and  her  baby  son — 
left  me  to  endure  the  torture  of  her  friendship  without  the  right 
to  call  it  love,  and  to  take  over  the  responsiljilities  of  a  parent 
towards  his  boy.  ..."  He  stopped  abruptly,  with  his  eyes 
keenly  fixed  on  Charles.  ''  Do  you  begin  to  understand  me  ?  " 
said  he.     "  I  think  so." 

For  Charles's  face  showed  the  dawning  of  an  idea — but  its 
surprise  was  due  more  to  the  fact  that  this  idea  had  never 
dawned  before  than  to  any  intrinsic  oddity  of  the  idea  itself. 
On  the  contrary,  his  word  to  himself  was : — "  How  strange  that 
I  never  saw  that  before !  Of  course — Fred's  mother."  To  Dr. 
Carteret  he  said : — "  I  think  I  understand  you.  But  I  don't 
think  anyone  ever  suspected  it.     Certainly  not  Fred." 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  549 

"  Certainly  not  Fred.  Fred  will  deny  the  possibility  of  it 
when  you  give  him  particulars  of  this  interview.  He  will  look 
on  what  I  have  said  as  the  words  ...  as,  in  short,  the  words 
of  a  madman.  But  he  will  come  to  think  otherwise.  I  am  not 
mad — I  never  was  more  sane  in  my  life — never  was  so  sane 
would  be  nearer  the  truth."  Charles  bore  these  words  in  mind; 
at  the  time  as  an  additional  testimony,  if  any  were  wanted,  of 
the  diseased  state  of  the  speaker's  faculties,  but  later  as  a  curious 
subject  of  speculation.  Dr.  Carteret  resumed  the  main  thread 
of  his  communication,  saying: — "  That  is  neither  here  nor  there. 
Let  it  be  as  it  is.  I  want  you,  Snaith,  to  lose  no  time  in  com- 
municating to  Fred,  as  from  me,  the  particulars  I  have  given  you 
of  my  own  life — a  life  of  self-repression  and  renunciation.  I 
wish  him  to  be  influenced  by  them.  I  do  not  know  if  you  are 
alive  to  the  fact  that  Fred  has  it  in  his  mind  to  leave  England 
permanently,  solely  that  he  may  be  at  a  distance  from  a  tempta- 
tion he  may  be  unable  to  resist.  It  is  a  pusillanimous  and  cow- 
ardly action.  Let  him  grasp  his  nettle  as  I  grasped  mine,  for 
twenty  long  years  and  more.  That  is  the  manly  course.  And 
mark  you  this,  Snaith !  This  passion  of  my  nephew's  is  a 
spurious  one — a  disease  of  the  imagination  as  much  as  the  heart. 
Such  a  passion,  nursed  in  the  absence  of  its  object,  may  poison 
the  best  years  of  a  life — may  be  a  man's  undoing.  I  have  little 
doubt  that  in  time  it  would  die  a  natural  death." 

Charles  could  not  help  entering  a  protest.  "  In  time !  Yes — 
but  in  what  time,  Doctor?  You  have  just  spoken  of  your  own 
— your  own  aberration.  .  .  .  Excuse  me ! — well,  suppose  we 
say  entichement  .  .  .  having  lasted  over  twenty  years.  Wliat 
right  have  we  to  suppose  that  Fred's  would  be  more  short-lived? 
May  he  not  be  taking  the  wisest  course,  after  all    .    .    .  ?  " 

"In  running  away  from  himself?  No.  The  two  women  are 
absolutely  unlike.  He  would  come  to  know  .  .  .  that  is  to 
say,  would  come  to  form  an  entirely  different  estimate  of  this 
woman  who  has  intoxicated  him." 

"  Do  you  know  her?  " 

Dr.  Carteret  did  not  answer  at  once.     He  looked  at  his  watch,, 
a  massive  gold  repeater  which  in  other  days  had  decided  all  dis- 
cussions about  the  accuracy  of  school-time  with  the  certainty  of 
Greenwich.     "  My  time  is  short,"  said  he.     "  1  must  finish.  .   .   . 
Yes — I  have  seen  the  lady." 

Charles's  curiosity  was  keenly  roused.  He  half  forgot  his 
belief  in  the  unsoundness  of  the  Doctor's  mind;  indeed,  the  old 
gentleman's  perfectly  collected  speech  and  manner  were  in  them- 


550  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

selves  enough  to  refute  such  an  idea,  even  in  the  face  of  all  the 
collateral  proof  to  the  contrary.  Charles  could  not  resist  the 
question  that  rose  to  his  lips.  "  Seen  the  lady  ?  Where  have 
you  seen  the  lady  ?  " 

Dr.  Carteret  shut  his  watch  with  a  snap,  and  returned  it  to 
his  pocket.  He  then  replied,  with  a  quiet  assurance  that  com- 
pletely silenced  further  enquiries : — "  I  am  not  at  liberty, 
Snaith,  to  say  anything  that  would  enable  you  to  identify  her. 
Let  me  ask  you  again  not  to  press  for  details  which  I  cannot 
give.  I  must  tell  you  that  the  knowledge  you  ask  for  would  not 
in  any  way  favour  the  transmission  of  my  message  to  Fred, 
which  is  the  object  I  have  in  view.  If  anything,  the  reverse." 
He  seemed  to  wait  for  comment;  then  as  Charles  made  none, 
asked  somewhat  abruptly : — "  Where  do  you  suppose  he  is  at 
this  moment?     Perhaps  you  don't  know." 

"  I  think  I  do.  At  least,  I  know  the  address  he  left  in  Paris 
— Hotel  Washington,  Lugano." 

"  Well — will  you  write  to  him  there  at  once,  giving  him  word 
for  word  what  I  said  to  you  just  now?  Tell  him  nothing  about 
my  sudden  reappearance  and  disappearance  in  this  way.  Noth- 
ing could  be  gained  by  it.  I  will  only  say  to  you  this  much 
about  it — that  I  am  not  a  responsible  agent.  I  cannot  even 
account  to  myself  for  my  position.  .  ,  .  No — I  can  explain 
nothing,  and  I  must  go,  as  my  time  is  up.  Ask  for  no  explana- 
tions." 

"  One  moment,  Dr.  Carteret !  Only  a  word.  You  must 
surely  see  that  it  will  be  very  difficult  to  word  your  message  in 
a  letter  to  Fred.    How  am  I  to  account  for  it  ?  " 

"  Don't  account  for  it.     Give  it." 

"  Without  a  word  of  explanation  of  the  circumstances  under 
which  I  received  it  ?  " 

The  Doctor  thought  a  moment.  "  You  can  say,"  said  he, 
"  that  I  returned  to  give  you  this  message  for  him.  That's 
enough." 

"  He  won't  believe  it.  He'll  think  I've  gone  dotty  on  the 
brain." 

"  Very  possibly.  But  he  won't  continue  to  do  so.  He  will  be 
convinced  by  collateral  evidence.  You  need  not  be  uneasy  on 
that  score." 

An  idea  presented  itself  to  Charles's  mind,  and  was  welcomed 
by  it.  ''  Would  not  this  way  do,  Doctor  ?  "  said  he.  "  Don't 
pooh-pooh  it  offhand.  Suppose  I  send  the  letter  out  to  my  wife, 
and  leave  it  to  her  to  break  the  news  of  your  return  and  give 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  551 

it  to  him  to  read.  He  will  be  overjoyed — at  your  return,  I  mean. 
Do  let  me  manage  it  that  way.     Don't  say  no !  " 

"  No — that  would  not  suit  me,  and  would  not  suit  the  circum- 
stances. I  am  sorry  to  have  to  negative  that  proposal.  .  .  . 
But  where  is  your  wife?  Is  she  at  the  Washington  Hotel, 
Lugano,  too  ?  " 

"  I  am  not  positively  certain  where  she  is  at  this  moment. 
She  wrote  from  Lucerne,  but  may  have  gone  on  to  Lugano.  I 
shall  have  a  letter  this  evening,  and  shall  go  out  to  join  her 
to-morrow."  He  half  persuaded  himself  this  was  all  gospel.  "  I 
wish  I  could  induce  you  to   .    .    ." 

"  To  let  you  tell  her  all  this,  for  her  to  repeat  to  Fred.  As 
you  are  going  out  to  her,  you  of  course  could  easily  do  so.  But 
my  wish  is  that  you  do  no  such  thing.  It  would  not  suit  me  at 
all.  I  have  decided  that  this  should  be  written  by  you  to  Fred, 
or  repeated  to  him  personally.  Is  that  understood?"  If  the 
Doctor  had  been  propounding  the  Law  to  schoolboys  in  revolt, 
he  could  not  have  spoken  more  draconically. 

Charles  felt  his  ruling  power,  and  bowed  before  it.  Once  a 
headmaster,  always  a  headmaster.  "  Of  course  I  should  not 
dream  of  doing  anything  contrary  to  your  wishes,  Sir,"  he  said. 
"  Only,  women  sometimes  put  points  better  than  men.  They 
handle  this  subject  with  greater  delicacy." 

"  Very  likely.  But  I  do  not  wish  your  wife  to  handle  this 
particular  subject  at  all.  So  that's  understood."  Charles 
nodded  assent,  and  the  old  gentleman  proceeded : — "  Now,  there 
is  one  other  point,  and  I  am  afraid,  Snaith,  that  my  insisting 
upon  it  may  seem  to  you  arbitrary.     I  have  no  address." 

"  But,  for  Fred's  sake,  you  will  communicate  it  when  you  have 
one." 

"  Not  only  for  Fred's  sake,  but  for  my  sister's,  for  the  school's 
sake — for  your  own,  for  that  matter.  But  it  is  not  a  matter  of 
will  and  won't.  It  is  a  matter  of  ability.  I  cannot  give  you 
any  account  of  my  whereabouts.  It  is  a  subject  on  which  I  can- 
not speak  positively.  This  may  seem  strange  to  you.  I  must 
ask  you  to  rest  contented  with  it." 

Midsummer  madness,  evidently !  If  he  had  said : — "  I  am 
unsettled  at  present,  but  will  communicate  with  you  as  soon  as  I 
am.  able  to  speak  deiinitely,"  it  might  have  seemed  odd,  but  could 
not  have  implied  insanity.  Charles  kept  off  arguing  the  point  as 
unsafe,  but  softened  an  abrupt  departure  from  it  by  saying : — 
"  Fred  will  be  inconsolable  at  not  being  able  to  rush  to  you  at 
once.     Do  you  know.  Doctor,  I  am  not  exaggerating  when  I  say 


552  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

that  your  return  to  life — to  onr  life,  I  mean, — will  be  looked 
upon  by  all  your  friends  as  a  resurrection  from  the  dead.  It 
will  indeed." 

"  You  don't  say  so !  "  said  the  Doctor.  But  he  did  not  seem 
concerned  with  the  opinion  of  his  friends;  a  little  amused,  per- 
haps. He  was  wiping  his  glasses  as  he  spoke,  and  when  he 
replaced  them,  he  looked  round  the  room.  "  Xo  change  here," 
said  he,  "  except  paint  and  paper  ,  .  .  you  know,  1  saic  this 
house  before  the  alterations." 

"  Oh  yes — of  course  I  heard  of  that."  Charles  hesitated  over 
speech  about  the  sequel.  Before  he  could  frame  it  to  his  liking, 
the  old  boy  spoke  again. 

"  The  bit  I  was  best  pleased  with,"  said  he,  "  was  the  big  stair- 
case out  there,  and  a  long  passage  with  windows,  looking  on  the 
garden." 

"  It's  rather  fetching,"  said  Charles.  "  Come  and  look  at  it. 
Through  here."     He  led  the  way. 

"I  don't  remember  t]iis/'  said  Dr.  Carteret,  stopping  at  the 
new  door,  and  placing  the  palm  of  his  hand  against  the  panel. 
"  There  was  no  door  here." 

"  No — that  door's  new.  Look  at  it.  A  fine  old  bit  of  mahog- 
any from  an  old  house  they  pulled  down  in  Jermyn  Street — Sir 
Something  Mordaunt's."  They  passed  through,  to  be  met  by  the 
clamour  of  the  parrakeets;  which  stopped  suddenly,  and  left 
their  loquacity  free  to  talk  about  the  newcomer,  among  them- 
selves. 

"  Yes — this  is  the  place  " — said  the  Doctor.  "  But  you  have 
done  wonders  with  it,  Snaith.  It  was  dilapidated  enough 
then." 

"  I  rather  make  it  a  rule,"  said  Charles,  "  to  have  this  place 
kept  point-de-vise.  My  wife  has  taken  a  rather  absurd  dislike 
to  it,  and  I  want  her  to  get  over  it.  I  don't  see  why  1  shouldn't 
tell  you  the  reason.  It  was  because  that  drunken  old  char- 
woman, who  showed  you  over  the  house,  told  how  she  left  you 
here  to  answer  a  bell — I  think — and  nobody  saw  you  again. 
That  gave  my  wife  a  painful  association  with  the  place." 

''  I'm  sorry,"  said  Dr.  Carteret. 

"  There  was  some  stupid  nonsense  about  its  being  impossible 
for  you  to  leave  the  house  without  being  seen,  which  made  it 
worse.  Now  when  you  go,  I  will  ask  you  to  show  me  which  way 
you  went  out  then,  and  that  will  reinstate  this  passage  in  my 
wife's  eyes.  At  present  she  won't  sit  here  in  the  summer  because 
she  hates  the  place.     And  that's  her  only  reason." 


J 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  553 

"  You  wish  me,  I  understand,  to  show  you  how  I  left  this 
house  ?  " 

"  Only  which  door  you  went  out  at.  .  .  .  But  it  doesn't 
matter."  He  added  the  last  words  because  of  an  odd  expression 
on  the  Doctor's  face,  for  which  he  saw  no  explanation.  It 
reminded  him  that  perhaps  he  was  dealins;  with  a  lunatic. 

"I  should  be  delighted,  Snaith."  said  Dr.  Carteret,  "to 
comply  with  such  a  very  reasonable  request,  if  it  were  within 
my  power  to  do  so.     But  honestly,  I  do  not  know." 

"  Do  not  know  which  door  you  went  out  by !  "  Charles  was 
sorry  for  having  shown  astonishment,  as  the  condition  of  his 
visitor's  mind  became  more  and  more  manifest  to  him. 

"  That  is  so.  My  memory  is  clear  up  to  the  moment  of  the  old 
woman's  departure.  I  remember  nothing  further.  I  am  com- 
pelled to  leave  much  unexplained.  Let  me  press  you  not  to 
question  me  on  this  subject.  I  am  certain  to  be  misunderstood, 
and  have  decided  to  keep  silence." 

Charles  saw  through  the  whole  thing  now.  Tlie  old  man's 
"  mental  alienation  " — or,  rather,  total  aberration  of  mind — had 
come  upon  him  at  that  very  moment  when  the  old  woman  saw 
him  preparing  to  wind  up  his  inspection  of  the  premises.  Natu- 
rally all  that  followed  was  a  cloudland  of  confusions.  Probably 
Avhat  he  said  was  true,  that  he  could  not  make  a  consecutive  nar- 
rative of  it  if  he  would.  Charles  felt  that  the  narrative  he  had 
just  heard,  that  he  was  to  transmit  to  Fred,  might  be  relied  on 
as  the  outcome  of  a  lucid  interval.  It  was  odd  that  its  narrator 
should  be  so  outspoken  on  such  a  subject,  but  there  was  no  trace 
of  insanity  about  it. 

His  own  responsibility  in  the  face  of  the  facts  began  to  disquiet 
him.  Was  it  prudent  to  allow  the  old  man  to  depart,  when  to 
do  so  might  be  to  lose  sight  of  him  again  outright?  "What  would 
Fred  say  to  him  if  he  tamely  acquiesced  in  such  an  end  to  this 
strange  visit?  On  the  other  hand,  how  could  he  detain  him 
without  calling  help,  if  he  persisted  in  departing  without  leaving 
any  satisfactory  clue  to  his  whereabouts?  It  would  only  be 
possible  if  the  grey  head  and  the  wrinkles  of  visible  age  meant 
senile  weakness,  and  even  then  such  weakness,  in  a  frame  that 
must  once  have  possessed  great  athletic  powers — and  indeed 
Charles  knew  that  his  old  master  had  been  famous  in  his  time  in 
this  respect — would  have  been  strength  compared  to  his  own 
modest  physical  capacity.  Add  to  this  the  well-known  fact  that 
the  muscular  developments  of  insanity  are  sometimes  gigantic 
and  quite  unaccountable.     No — ^lie  would  have  to  call  in  Tom 


554  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

the  gardener  and  his  able-bodied  son,  Jack,  whose  v.oices  he  had 
heard  mixing  with  those  of  the  household  as  they  passed  the  foot 
of  the  great  staircase.  But  he  shrank  from  the  idea  of  violent 
restraint,  although  he  believed  that  Law  might  back  him  in 
employing  it  in  this  instance. 

Stop ! — was  there  no  half-way  between  simply  letting  him  go 
and  taking  him  prisoner?  Yes — there  was.  He  might  be  fol- 
lowed— kept  in  view  and  watched,  until  his  tracker  was  satisfied 
that  he  was  run  home  to  his  domicile.  This  was  not  in  Charles's 
line ;  besides,  he  would  arouse  suspicion  if  seen,  and  set  the  well- 
known  cunning  of  insanity  on  the  alert.  But  there  was  Jack, 
son  of  Tom,  totally  unknown  to  the  Doctor,  and  as  sharp  as  a 
razor. 

"  Would  you  excuse  me  for  half  a  minute.  Doctor  ?  I  want 
to  give  a  message  to  a  young  man  I  heard  in  the  kitchen  just 
now,  and  I'm  afraid  he  may  run  away  without  seeing  me."  Thus 
Charles  to  the  Doctor,  who  replied : — "  Oh,  certainly,  certainly ! 
Don't  hurry  on  my  account."  Said  Charles  then,  remembering 
that  instructions  may  take  time : — "  Well — two  or  three  minutes, 
then  ! — not  long,  anyhow  !  " 

He  paused  a  moment  outside  the  now  door.  It  would  never 
do  to  call  Jack  up  and  talk  to  him  outside  that  new  door.  Sup- 
pose the  Doctor  came  out !  Neither  would  it  do  to  go  out  of 
sight  df  it.  The  Doctor  might  slip  through  and  be  off  as  he 
had  done  before.  He  turned  the  key  carefully,  and  went  on 
towards  the  kitchen. 

He  found  Jack,  who  understood  what  was  wanted  of  him  with 
amazing  rapidity.  He  might  have  been  in  training  for  a  de- 
tective. It  was  arranged  that  he  should  make  a  feint  of  working 
near  the  garden  gates,  and  should  happen  to  be  knocking  off 
work  just  as  the  governor  accompanied  his  visitor  down  the 
gravel  path  to  see  him  off.  Then,  he  was  to  throw  down  his  tools 
and  follow  unseen. 

It  may  have  taken  more  than  the  three  minutes  to  arrange 
this,  but  that  did  not  matter,  as  the  door  was  locked  and  there 
was  absolutely  no  other  exit  except  the  door  leading  into  the  back 
garden  through  the  greenhouse.  Charles  had  not  a  shadow  of 
doubt  as  to  finding  Dr.  Carteret  where  he  left  him. 

"  Sorry  to  be  so  long,"  he  began  to  say,  before  he  had  turned 
the  corner  of  the  passage.  He  did  not  get  to  the  last  word.  He 
found  himself  speaking  to  no  one.  He  called  out : — "  Doctor 
— where  are  you?"  But  no  answer  came.  He  jumped  to  the 
only  conclusion  possible.     Dr.  Carteret  had  walked  out  into  the 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  555 

garden.  Ho  went  along  the  passage  absolutely  confident  of  this 
until  he  turned  the  handle  of  the  door,  and  found  it  locked.  So 
dominant  was  the  idea  that  the  old  man  must  be  in  the  garden 
— because,  where  else  could  he  be? — that  he  had  actually  begun 
to  turn  the  key  to  go  out  before  he  remembered  that  it  could 
not  have  locked  itself  after  the  Doctor's  exit. 

When  an  apparent  impossibility  happens,  the  brain  reels ;  noth- 
ing can  be  relied  on.  Man's  terms  with  sanity,  with  logic,  with 
everything  that  can  give  the  mind  a  secure  foothold,  are  broken 
through,  and  mistrust  of  sight,  touch,  and  hearing  saps  his  judg- 
ment and  leaves  him  helpless.  Charles  grew  sick  with  fear  that 
perhaps  his  own  faculties  were  unhinged.  Was  this  return  of 
his  old  schoolmaster  all  a  dream?  Had  his  recent  anxiety  un- 
settled his  understanding?  No — that  was  out  of  the  question. 
Had  not  the  servants  seen  the  old  gentleman  before  he  did? 

He  ran  back  into  the  house,  calling  loudly  to  whomsoever 
might  be  in  hearing.  W^iere  was  Dr.  Carteret,  the  old  gentle- 
man he  had  been  talking  with  in  the  parlour?  .  .  .  Yes — he 
had  left  him  in  the  greenhouse  passage  less  than  ten  minutes  ago 
to  speak  to  Jack,  and  now  he  was  nowhere  to  be  found ! 

From  the  kitchen  below  and  the  nursery  above  came  the 
womankind  of  the  household;  normal  at  first,  then  gradually 
infected  with  the  master's  alarm.  The  gentleman  must  be  some- 
where. He  couldn't  be  ofi^  of  it.  That  was  cook's  decision. 
Anne  the  housemaid  went  further,  and  said  he  must  be  in  the 
house,  as  she  had  never  been  rang  for  to  let  him  out.  Pinning 
her  faith  on  this,  she  passed  into  the  passage  where  he  ought  to 
have  been ;  the  import  of  her  demeanour  being,  that  her  shrewder 
insight  would  at  once  discern  the  whereabouts  of 


CHAPTER  XXXIV 

The  story  would  now  liave  told  how  Charles's  utter  bewilder- 
ment at  the  disa])pcarance  of  his  old  schoolmaster  was  increased 
and  intensified  by  tlie  hysterical  excitement  of  the  household.  No 
one  liad  let  Dr.  Carteret  in,  or  been  near  the  front  door  since 
Charles  left  the  house  for  his  walk.  He  knew  he  had  closed  the 
door  on  leaving  the  house,  and  let  himself  in  with  his  latchkey' 
on  his  return.  As  for  the  back  entrance,  that  opened  into  the 
kitchen,  so  that  no  one  could  have  entered  that  way  unperceived. 
The  kitchen,  as  all  the  evidence  went  to  prove,  had  been  tenanted 
the  whole  afternoon.  Anne,  the  housemaid,  who  found  the  vis- 
itor in  the  study  waitino;  to  see  ]\[r.  Snaith,  had  naturally  con- 
cluded that  one  of  the  others  must  have  shown  him  in.  Tom,  the 
gardener,  when  cross-questioned  admitted  having  seen  a  tall  stout 
o-entleman  through  the  studv  window,  but  had  not  seen  him  come 
up  to  the  house;  in  fact,  the  mystery  seemed  to  grow,  and  as  poor 
Charles  settled  himself  down  to  a  cigar  after  an  uncomfortable 
and  agitated  meal  that  evening,  his  thoughts  turned  eagerly  to 
the  journey  to  meet  Lucy  on  the  following  day.  He  felt  if  he 
could  join  her  at  Lucerne,  and  then  both  go  on  together  and 
pick  up  Fred,  life  would  become  sane  again.  The  message  to 
Fred  was  an  additional  reason  for  hurrying  off.  Fred  might  be 
able  to  suggest  an  ex{)lanation,  and  anyhow  it  showed  that  Lucy 
was  not  alone  in  her  strange  experiences  in  the  house. 

Perhaps  tliat  had  been  at  the  bottom  of  all  the  trouble.  He 
had  been  so  hard  and  unsympathetic  with  her,  and  her  nerves 
had  been  unduly  tried  all  round. 

That  it  was  the  Doctor  himself  Charles  could  not  reasonably 
doubt.    Who,  and  what,  else  could  it  have  been? 

Furthermore  that  he  was  mad  was  perfectly  evident.  Of 
course -some  natural  explanation  of  his  clisappearance  would  be 
found;  such  things  always  were  explainable.  Still,  it  was  very 
odd,  very  odd  indeed.  He  must  be  hiding  somewhere  near,  but 
tlien  those  locked  doors !  There  certainly  was  something  queer 
about  the  house !  Lucy  had  always  said  so.  They  would  discuss 
it  together,  and  it  would  form  a  new  bond  of  sympathy  between 
them.  Could  there  be  a  secret  way  leading  to  some  hitherto 
unknown  exit? 

556 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  557 

Such  things  had  been  heard  of  in  old  houses,  but  then  that 
passage  led  only  to  the  greenhouse,  and  that  was  locked  from  the 
inside. 

No,  he  gave  it  up,  he  must  wait  for  Lucy  and  Fred ;  they  might 
possibly  be  able  to  throw  some  light  on  the  mystery;  and  com- 
pletely worn  out  by  the  events  of  the  day,  Charles  fell  to  dozing 
over  his  cigar. 

A  sharp  knock  at  the  door  roused  him  with  a  start,  and  Mrs, 
Gorhambury  stood  before  him.  Pompous  and  important,  she 
informed  him  of  fresh  difficulties  that  beset  his  path.  The 
servants  were  all  so  upset  by  the  uncanny  occurrence  of  the 
afternoon  that  they  declared  they  could  not  stop  in  the 
house. 

Two  of  them  whose  homes  were  near  had  already  taken  them- 
selves off,  refusing  to  sleep  another  night  at  The  Cedars;  the 
others  vowed  they  would  leave  in  the  morning.  Mrs.  Gorham- 
bury understood  Mr.  Snaith  was  starting  for  the  Continent  early 
the  next  day,  and  she  felt  that  under  the  circumstances  she  could 
not  risk  being  left  alone  in  the  house  with  sole  charge  of  the 
baby ;  besides,  was  it  safe  for  the  child  with  such  happenings  and 
both  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Snaith  away? 

Poor  Charles  saw  the  fLx,  and  at  once  bethought  him  of  his 
mother-in-law.  He  would  wire  and  ask  her  to  take  pity  on  Mrs. 
Gorhambury  and  the  baby  for  awhile,  and  then  he  need  not  delay 
his  start.  Or  stay,  a  letter  would  reach  Devonshire  Place  by  the 
first  post  the  next  morning,  and  be  more  explanatory  and  less 
upsetting  than  a  telegram  delivered  late  at  night ;  he  would  ask 
Mrs.  Hinchliffe  to  wire  her  reply  in  order  that  he  might  know 
in  time  to  be  able  to  catch  the  midday  boat.  There  could  be  no 
difficulty  about  it ;  she  would  be  sure  to  take  them  in.  Indeed,  it 
had  already  been  spoken  of,  but  decided  against  in  favour 
of  Wimbledon  air  for  the  child  versus  Devonshire  Place  breezes. 

So  a  letter  was  composed  to  Mamma  Hinchliffe  explaining 
that  the  household  threatened  leaving  en  bloc,  owing  to  some 
silly  fancy  about  ghosts  and  hauntings.  Charles  carefully 
avoided  entering  into  any  details  as  to  the  real  nature  of  the 
upset,  and  dwelt  on  the  need  for  his  joining  Lucy  with  as  little 
delay  as  possible. 

He  went  out  to  post  the  letter  himself.  The  night  air  was 
refreshing,  there  was  a  bright  moon  shining,  and  as  Charles 
walked  slowly  up  the  drive  to  the  house  he  peered  behind  the 
laurel  bushes,  and  then  leaving  the  path,  he  carefully  explored 
every  nook  and  corner  of  the  large  garden,  half  hoping  to  find 

86 


558  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

the  Doctor's  portly  frame  hiding  in  the  deep  shadows  cast  by  the 
trees  in  the  moonlight.  But  there  was  nothing  to  be  seen.  He 
walked  along  the  outer  wall  of  the  long  passage  to  examine  the 
windows.  Could  old  Stultifex  Maximus  have  squeezed  out  that 
way? 

But  the  windows — there  were  only  two  of  them — were,  as  he 
well  knew,  small  and  placed  rather  high  up;  moreover,  they  were 
guarded  by  iron  grills,  relics  of  the  old  madhouse  days,  that 
Charles  had  decided  not  to  remove  on  anti-burglar  grounds. 

No,  that  explanation  would  not  work.  He  let  himself  in, 
bolted  and  barred  the  door  for  the  night,  then  set  himself  the 
task  of  exploring  all  over  the  house  from  the  cellars  to  the  attics 
in  an  exhaustive  search  for  the  slightest  possible  clue  to  the 
mystery.  Everything  appeared  normal,  not  a  hole  or  corner 
where  a  portly  old  gentleman  could  under  any  circumstances 
have  taken  cover.  Charles  went  into  all  the  empty  rooms,  looked 
under  all  the  beds,  opened  all  the  cupboards,  as  he  put  it  "  to 
leave  no  stone  unturned,"  and,  finally  taking  a  last  look  down 
the  passage,  unlocked  the  door  of  the  greenhouse  and  looked  in 
at  the  plants. 

A  row  of  small  flower  pots  blacked  the  gangway.  In  the 
absence  of  the  family,  the  gardener  had  placed  a  quantity  of 
cuttings  in  the  greenhouse  for  protection,  so  that  even  had  the 
Doctor  been  able  to  overcome  the  difficulty  of  letting  himself  out 
bj  that  door  and  locking  it  after  him  from  the  inside,  he  could 
not  have  jumped  over  such  an  array  of  flower  pots  without 
causing  considerable  havoc  and  disaster. 

So  there  was  nothing  left  to  Charles  but  to  acknowledge  the 
insolubility  of  the  problem  and  go  to  bed. 

The  morrow  brought  a  promptly  dispatched  wire  from  Mrs. 
Hinchliffe  in  reply  to  Charles's  letter.  "  Impossible  take  baby. 
Come  and  see  me  eleven  o'clock  on  no  account  start.  Hinch- 
liffe." AMiat  could  it  mean?  Lucy  must  have  returned;  that 
was  the  only  explanation  that  presented  itself  to  Charles's  excited 
brain,  and  his  spirits  rose  as  he  prepared  to  leave  the  house  to 
go  up  to  town. 

He  told  Mrs.  Gorhambury  to  expect  him  back  by  the  after- 
noon, and  in  all  probability  Mrs.  Snaith  as  well,  when  they  would 
decide  about  the  baby  and  evolve  plans. 

On  arriving  at  Devonshire  Place,  with  growing  confidence, 
Charles  again  enquired  of  the  stolid  butler  "  when  Mrs.  Snaith 
had  arrived,"  to  be  again  told  that  no  Mrs.  Snaith  was  there. 

"  But  Mrs.  Hinchliffe  is  expecting  you,  Sir,"  said  the  man 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  559 

with  a  sort  of  hesitation  in  his  voice  as  if  to  convey  a  hint  at 
consolation  from  a  distant  but  respectful  sphere. 

Mrs.  Hinchliffe  rose  to  greet  Charles  with  a  certain  nervous- 
ness in  her  manner  that  he  had  never  detected  in  her  before,  and 
that  forced  the  conviction  upon  him  that  something  very  unusual 
and  upsetting  had  occurred.  Slowly  Charles  learned  from  Ms 
mother-in-law  that  she  had  sent  for  him  because  she  gathered 
from  his  letter  received  that  morning  that  he  was  totally  in  the 
dark  as  to  the  scandal  Lucy  had  communicated  direct  to  her 
mother  in  her  letter  of  the  previous  day.  Otherwise  how  could 
Charles  be  contemplating  joining  her  in  Switzerland?  She 
thought  it  better  he  should  see  the  letter  for  himself,  without 
loss  of  time.  He  might  be  able  to  throw  some  light  on  it,  or 
he  might  not,  how  could  she  tell?  All  she  bargained  for  was, 
that  the  vulgarity  of  motives  imputed  to  her  by  her  daughter 
might  be  spared  her,  and  that  for  the  honour  of  the  family, 
some  means  might  be  found  of  hushing  things  up,  and  bringing 
Lucy  back  to  a  sense  of  duty. 

Lucy's  letter  openly  accused  her  mother  of  having  manipulated 
her  marriage,  with  a  view  to  a  possible  title  in  the  future,  and 
brusquely  told  her  that  she  was  now  deeply  in  love  with  anotlaer 
man,  and  that  they  had  both  decided  that  they  would  kick  over 
the  traces  and  belong  to  each  other,  that  she  was  very  sorry  for 
poor  Charles,  whom  she  regarded  with  affectionate  respect,  but 
that  if  he  had  been  erred  against  it  was  entirely  her  mother's 
doing.  She,  Lucy,  could  not  be  expected  to  starve  all  her  life 
because  the  feast  her  mother  had  provided  for  her  was  not  to 
her  taste. 

Mrs.  Hinchliffe  then  proceeded  to  tell  Charles  how  she  had 
promptly  sent  for  her  great  friend  Mrs.  Bannister  Stair,  who, 
after  reading  Lucy's  letter,  actually  said  it  was  what  she  had 
been  expecting  all  along,  and  that  for  her  part  she  had  not  .a 
shadow  of  doubt  as  to  who  the  man  was. 

AYho  else  could  it  be  but  Fred  Carteret?  She  had  known  "it 
must  come  to  that  from  the  very  first  time  she  saw  them  to- 
gether. In  fact,  anyone  with  eyes  in  their  head  would  have 
known  what  to  expect. 

Charles  felt  stunned  and  dazed;  the  whole  fabric  of  his  life 
seemed  to  be  crumbling.  Fred,  his  beloved  Fred !  the  thing  was 
impossible ! !  No,  he  could  not  believe  it,  he  must  go  at  once 
to  Maida  Vale.  True,  both  Mrs.  Carteret  and  her  son  were  the 
other  side  of  the  Channel,  still  he  might  find  out  from  the  ser- 
vants if  Mrs.  Carteret  had  left  Paris,  and  then  if  he  could  get 


560  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

into  communication  with  lier,  she  would  reassure  him  about 
Fred ;  he  felt  certain  of  it.  And  Charles  was  preparing  to  rush 
off  like  a  demented  being,  when  Mrs.  Hinchlilfe  stopped  him,  and 
with  considerable  dignity  informed  him  that  she  must  positively 
know  what  steps  he  intended  taking  about  Lucy. 

For  her  part  no  breath  of  scandal  had  ever  before  touched 
either  her,  or  her  singularly  upright  family.  She  was  entirely 
new  to  such  upsets,  and  could  not  face  the  unpleasantness  of  the 
situation.  She  had  written  to  Lucy  strongly,  most  strongly, 
urging  her  to  return  to  her  husband,  her  home,  and  her  duty. 
She  liad  directed  the  letter  to  the  hotel  at  Lugano^  though  she 
gathered  from  Lucy's  letter  that  they  were  on  the  point  of  leav- 
ing; the  letter  would  be  forwarded,  Lucy  would  be  sure  to  get  it. 

As  for  the  child,  Mrs.  Hinchliffe  could  not  possibly  have  him 
and  the  nurse  at  Devonshire  Place.  She  had  arranged  to  leave 
London  that  afternoon  with  her  dear  friend  Mrs.  Bannister 
Stair  and  the  house  would  be  shut  up.  Charles  must  really  not 
put  \\p  with  such  nonsense  from  the  servants.  As  if  there  were 
not  troubles  enough  in  the  world  without  bringing  in  ghosts.  It 
was  too  ridiculous ! 

Charles  in  his  utter  misery  and  bewilderment  could  only  think 
of  one  thing  he  could  do,  and  in  reply  to  his  mother-in-law's 
question,  said  he  would  wire  at  once  to  Lucy.  "  Come  back  and 
all  will  be  forgiven."  She  must  be  suffering  from  some  sort  of 
mental  aberration ;  she  clearly  was  not  herself,  he  felt  convinced 
of  that.  Her  mother  had  no  doubt  written  very  harshly  to  her ; 
it  was  kindness  she  needed,  she  must  be  made  to  feel  that  no 
doors  were  closed,  that  all  could  yet  be  set  right. 

Yes,  that  was  the  thing  for  him  to  do,  and  hastily  bidding 
adieu  to  ]\Irs.  Hinchliffe,  Charles  rushed  off  to  the  nearest  tele- 
graph office. 

From  there  he  jumped  into  the  first  hansom  he  saw  and  drove 
straight  to  Maida  Vale.  To  his  surprise  he  found  that  Mrs. 
Carteret  had  returned  alone  the  night  before  quite  unexpectedly. 

"  She  was  very  tired,"  the  servant  said,  and  in  fact  seemed 
quite  ill,  no  better  for  the  change,  but  she  would  enquire  if  Mrs. 
Carteret  could  see  him,  if  he  would  wait  in  the  dining-room  while 
she  went  upstairs  to  see. 

Charles  paced  the  room  uneasily.  What  could  have  brought 
Mrs.  Carteret  back  so  soon?  and  by  herself  too?  but — !  No,  no, 
it  was  too  horrible  to  contemplate  such  an  idea.  Charles  simply 
could  not  face  it!  It  was  all  some  mistake,  some  nightmare; 
Mrs.  Carteret  would  be  able  to  explain;  but  as  the  door  opened 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  561 

and  Mrs.  Carteret  herself  entered,  her  handsome  face  worn  and 
grey,  her  shoulders  bent  as  if  with  an  added  weight  of  years, 
Charles  grasped  the  truth.  He  sank  into  a  chair  and  covered 
his  face  with  his  hands,  imploring  lier  to  tell  him  all  she  knew. 

Gently  and  sympathetically  Mrs.  Carteret  told  Charles  the 
whole  story  as  known  to  herself.  How  Fred  had  struggled  and 
striven  with  his  love  for  his  friend's  wife,  and  how  the  thought 
of  treachery  to  Charles  had  almost  driven  him  mad,  till  finally 
he  had  decided  that  flight  was  the  only  course  open  to  him,  hence 
their  hastily  planned  journey  to  the  Continent.  How  in  his 
restlessness  he  had  gone  on  to  Lugano,  and  left  her  for  a  few 
days'  longer  stay  in  Paris  where  she  had  friends.  How  she  was 
to  have  followed  him  to  Switzerland  on  the  very  day  that  she 
received  a  wire  from  him  to  stop  her,  "  Do  not  come,  Lucy  has 
joined  me  here,  we  go  to  Italy  together,  forgive  me  Mother. 
Fred."  So  far  no  letter  had  come,  and  Mrs.  Carteret  had 
returned  at  once  to  Maida  Yale.  She  had  no  further  reason 
for  remaining  abroad,  and  longed  for  the  quiet  of  her  own 
home. 

There  was  nothing  to  be  done,  the  die  was  cast.  It  was  hope- 
less to  attempt  to  follow  them ;  besides  it  would  be  useless ;  they 
had  chosen,  the  thing  was  done. 

Mrs.  Carteret  did  all  she  could  to  comfort  the  unhappy 
Charles  and  insisted  that  it  would  be  a  great  consolation  to  her 
to  have  Mrs.  Gorhambury  and  the  baby  in  the  house.  Charles 
would  go  back  to  sleep  at  his  chambers,  and  come  and  see  her 
and  his  son  as  often  as  ever  he  could,  and  The  Cedars  must  be 
shut  up  for  the  time  being. 

So  far  Charles  had  said  nothing  about  the  mvsterious  visit  of 
the  Doctor,  merely  dwelling  on  the  fact  of  a  sudden  domestic 
upheaval  at  The  Cedars,  and  the  inability  of  ilrs.  Hinchliffe  to 
take  in  the  baby  and  the  nurse,  but  when  at  Mrs.  Carteret's  in- 
sistence he  returned  that  evening  to  dine  with  her,  and  inspect 
Master  Charles  in  his  new  quarters  in  which  he  had  been  in- 
stalled late  in  the  afternoon,  Charles  unburdened  himself  of  the 
whole  strange  story  of  his  interview  with  the  old  Doctor.  Mrs. 
Carteret  appeared  startled  at  first,  but  her  firm  conviction 
that  her  brother-in-law  was  really  dead  remained  unchanged, 
Charles's  mental  condition  at  the  time  of  the  alleged  interview 
inclining  her  to  the  theory  of  hallucination.  But  then  there  was 
that  servant  who  had  seen  him  first !  and  the  strangeness  of  the 
story  he  had  told  about  himself!  certainly  unknown  to  Charles, 
and  only  just  in  these  latter  years  even  suspected  by  her !     The 


562  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

message  to  Fred  might  have  been  a  sort  of  subconscious  working 
of  Charles'  own  brain,  but  the  other,  no  ! 

It  was  all  very  puzzling,  very  unaccountable.  Still  she  could 
not  rid  herself  of  a  sort  of  certainty  in  her  own  mind  that  the 
Doctor  had  been  murdered,  and  that  Charles  in  his.  overwrought 
state  must  somehow  have  dreamt  the  whole  thing. 

The  days  that  followed  were  days  of  intense  misery  to  Charles. 
The  whole  fabric  of  his  life  seemed  to  have  crumbled  away  and 
left  him  high  and  dry  in  a  changed  world.  He  felt  himself  aim- 
lessly drifting  God  knows  where  to  God  knows  what.  Charles 
the  Third  alone  kept  him  from  yielding  to  the  temptation  to  end 
it  all  by  his  own  hand. 

In  due  course  Mrs.  Carteret  received  a  letter  from  her  son. 
Lucy  had  come  to  him  desolate  and  disconsolate.  What  could 
he  do?  It  was  a  force  majeure;  they  were  in  the  hands  of 
the  Fates.  It  was  bad,  and  mad,  and  sad,  and  he  could  never 
forgive  himself.  But  if  only  his  mother  really  knew  his  Lucy. 
She  was  an  angel,  and  to  know  all  is  to  forgive  all,  and  so  forth 
for  pages  and  pages  of  a  closely  written  but  most  unconvincing 
letter. 

They  were  going  on  to  Italy,  he  said.  Charles  would  of  course 
apply  for  a  divorce,  and  then  they  could  be  married  at  once. 
He  i'elt  sure  his  mother  would  get  to  love  Lucy  and  understand 
her,  and  in  the  end  all  would,  must,  be  well. 

For  Lucy's  sake  Charles  made  no  delay  in  suing  for  a  divorce. 
He  placed  the  matter  unreservedly  in  the  hands  of  Mr.  Trymer 
with  instructions  to  make  everything  as  easy  as  possible  for  Lucy 
and  not  to  regard  him  himself  or  his  interests  in  any  way.  The 
Cedars  had  been  bought  with  money  that  was  to  come  to  Lucy, 
and  Charles  would  merely  remove  his  household  goods,  pay  off 
the  servants,  and  as  to  the  rest  Mrs.  Hinchliffe  must  be  con- 
sulted. 

So  it  came  about  that  The  Cedars  was  again  to  be  sold,  and  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Grewbeer  came  to  their  own  as  caretakers.  They  dwelt 
persistently  and  with  much  emphasis  on  the  bad  luck  that  the 
house  seemed  to  bring  its  occupants,  and  the  many  mysterious 
happenings  that  had  occurred  there.  In  consequence  The  Cedars 
got  a  doubtful  reputation  and  stood  empty  for  a  long  time,  until 
at  last  it  was  bought  by  an  enterprising  doctor  who  contem- 
plated building  on  another  wing,  and  converting  it  into  a  sana- 
torium for  consumptive  patients. 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  563 

Meanwhile  Charles  had  got  into  the  habit  of  frequenting 
Maida  Vale.  Mrs.  Carteret  had  always  seemed  so  genuinely- 
upset  whenever  he  had  suggested  taking  a  house  and  having  his 
son  with  him,  that  the  arrangement  had  drifted  on.  Nancy  con- 
tinued her-weekly  visits  to  Mrs.  Carteret.  Charles  in  consequence 
saw  a  great  deal  of  her,  and  before  they  were  either  of  them 
aware  of  it  they  found  they  had  become  indispensable  to  each 
other,  and  in  the  end  Elbows  married  Nosey,  and  they  live  in 
St.  John's  Wood  to  be  as  near  Mrs.  Carteret  as  possible. 

As  for  Fred,  as  soon  as  the  divorce  was  procured  he  at  once 
married  Lucy,  but  they  continued  to  live  abroad,  and  arranged 
that  Mrs.  Cartaret  should  go  to  Homburg  to  meet  them,  Lucy 
having  objected  to  returning  to  England  on  any  terms.  Mrs. 
Carteret  had  been  still  heavier  hearted  about  Fred  after  this 
meeting,  and  disliked  Lucy  more  than  ever.  It  struck  her  that 
even  in  those  early  days  he  was  beginning  to  weary  of  a  life  of 
continued  idleness  at  foreign  spas,  though  he  refused  to  admit 
it,  and  that  Lucy  with  her  beauty  and  money  was  likely  to  drift 
away  from  him  and  get  bored  by  his  constant  hankering  after  a 
settled  home.  And  when  later  on  she  eloped  with  a  Eussian 
prince,  Mrs.  Carteret  was  not  astonished,  and  felt  that  on  the 
whole  perhaps  it  was  the  best  thing  that  could  happen  to  Fred. 

He,  Fred,  had  then  returned  to  England,  looking  old  and 
worn,  but  had  found  it  impossible  to  pick  up  the  threads  of  his 
old  life,  so  in  the  end  he  decided  to  go  to  Canada  and  start  life 
and  work  anew.  The  true  revelation  of  Lucy's  real  character 
built  a  bridge  for  a  reconciliation  between  Fred  and  his  old 
friend  Charles,  and  the  two  met  once  again  on  the  evening  before 
Fred  sailed  for  Canada. 

As  for  Mrs.  Hinchliffe  she  never  forgave  Lucy,  and  as  the 
latter's  career  became  more  and  more  stamped  as  that  of  an 
adventuress,  she  openly  denounced  her,  refusing  to  have  any 
further  communication  with  her.  She  continued,  however,  to  see 
her  grandchild  at  stated  intervals,  and  settled  all  the  money  she 
had  control  over  on  him,  disinheriting  her  daughter. 

Lucy  never  made  the  slightest  attempt  to  see  her  child,  and  as 
time  wore  on  Charles's  great  fear  that  she  would  do  so  died  a 
natural  death. 

Nothing  more  was  heard  of  Dr.  Carteret,  letters  of  administra- 
tion were  taken  out,  and  his  affairs  were  wound  up,  and  a  new 
headmaster  reigned  at  Vexton  Stultifer. 


564  THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

As  for  Charlci?  lie  never  could  entirely  rid  his  mind  of  the  idea 
that  his  old  schoolmaster  must  be  hiding  somewhere,  but  Mrs. 
Carteret  stuck  to  her  conviction  that  he  was  dead,  most  probably 
murdered. 

Communications  with  Scotland  Yard  over  the  disappearance 
had  practically  ceased,  when  one  morning  the  maid  brought  up* 
Mr.  Manton's  card  to  Mrs.  Carteret  with  a  request  that  she  would 
see  him  on  important  business. 

After  being  duly  shown  in  to  the  somewhat  flustered  Mrs. 
Carteret,  and  the  door  carefully  closed,  the  Inspector,  with  but 
an  indifferent  attempt  at  subduing  his  sense  of  professional  tri- 
umph to  an  attitude  of  becoming  sympathy  with  the  bereaved, 
produced  a  gold  watch  and  chain,  and  a  bunch  of  keys  easily 
identified  by  Mrs.  Carteret  as  belonging  to  her  brother-in-law. 
She  turned  very  pale,  but  asked  in  a  strangely  composed  voice, 
if  they  had  found  the  murderer. 

"  Xot  murdered  at  all,  ]Madam,"  was  the  reply,  "  an  accident, 
most  peculiar."  He  then  proceeded  to  tell  her  how  in  the  course 
of  the  alterations  at  The  Cedars  the  greenhouse  had  been  pulled 
down,  and  the  tiled  floor  that  Charles  had  had  laid  along  the 
passage  leading  to  it  been  taken  up,  and  how  the  men  in  shift- 
ing some  heavy  iron  girders  had  let  one  "end  of  their  load  drop, 
just  about  the  middle  of  the  passage.  That  the  weight  of  the 
girders  had  caused  a  hitherto  unsuspected  trap  door  to  spring 
open.  That  on  examination  they  found  that  there  had  evidently 
been  a  surprise  bath  there  worked  by  pulleys  on  the  other  side 
of  the  wall  of  the  passage.  The  trap  was  most  skilfully  con- 
cealed in  order  to  deceive  the  unsuspecting  lunatic,  who  Avhen 
walking  along  the  passage  had  been  suddenly  let  down  into  the 
bath,  with  a  view  to  the  beneficial  effects  supposed  to  accrue 
from  the  shock  of  an  unexpected  plunge  into  cold  water.  The 
springs  were  rusty  and  stiff  with  age,  and  only  a  very  heavy 
weight  could  have  caused  them  to  spring  open. 

On  examination  they  found  that  about  a  quarter  of  the  way 
down  there  had  been  an  iron  grating  that  allowed  of  the  water 
being  drained  off,  and  also  prevented  the  patients  falling  to  the 
bottom  of  the  well,  which  was  of  a  very  great  depth.  This  iron 
grating  had  rusted  and  worn  away  with  time,  but  some  jagged 
edges  were  left  sticking  out,  on  which  they  had  found  torn  pieces 
of  tweed  clothing,  evidently  of  a  recent  make,  and  on  penetrating 
to  the  bottom  of  the  now  dried  up  well,  they  had  come  upon  the 
skeleton  of  a  very  big  man,  which  Scotland  Yard  had  promptly 
identified  as  that  of  the  missing  Doctor.    The  sewer  and  pipes  by 


f 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  565 

which  the  well  had  formerly  been  filled  from  a  stream,  that  in 
those  days  flowed  close  to  the  house,  but  that  had  long  since  been 
diverted  into  another  channel,  were  all  intact,  and  swarming  with 
rats. 

It  was  easy  to  see  how  it  had  all  happened.  The  great  weight 
of  the  unfortunate  Doctor,  when  he  inadvertently  trod  on  the 
concealed  spring  of  the  trap  door  had  caused  it  to  fly  open  and 
let  him  through  with  a  sudden  jerk,  that  closed  it  up  again 
behind  him.  He  must  have  tried  in  vain  to  catch  at  any  pro- 
jection that  could  possibly  stay  his  fall,  but  the  iron  grating  was 
worn  away  and  completely  rotten  and  gave  way  as  he  clutched  it. 
The  chances  were  that  falling  to  that  depth  he  had  been  killed 
outright  on  reaching  the  bottom.  The  extremely  close  fitting  of 
the  trap  door  that  closed  behind  him,  the  army  of  rats  in  the  old 
sewer,  and  finally  the  tiled  floor  that  had  been  laid  down  the 
whole  length  of  the  passage,  all  combined  to  make  the  discovery 
of  the  tragedy  unlikely.  It  was  the  merest  chance  that  had 
brought  to  light  the  horrible  way  Dr.  Carteret  had  met  his  end. 

But  of  Charles's  interview  with  him  that  afternoon  in  the  study 
at  The  Cedars  no  explanation  was  ever  forthcoming,  and  Charles 
to  this  day  believes  it  was  really  his  old  schoolmaster  either  in 
the  body  or  out  of  it,  who  came  to"  him  in  a  vain  endeavour  to 
make  the  crooked  straight,  and  tell  the  secret  of  his  own  lifelong 
love. 


A  FEW  LAST  WORDS  TO  THE  EEADER 

I  FEEL  that  a  short  explanation  might  be  welcome  to  the 
readers  of  this  unfinished  novel,  in  order  that  they  may  under- 
stand how  the  notes  as  to  the  proposed  ending  of  the  story  come 
to  be  really  what  my  husband  had  intended  and  not  merely  a 
matter  of  surmise  on  my  part. 

When  my  husband  started  on  one  of  his  novels,  he  did  so 
without  making  any  definite  plot.  He  created  his  characters 
and  then  waited  for  them  to  act  and  evolve  their  own  plot.  In 
this  way  the  puppets  in  the  show  became  real  living  personalities 
to  him,  and  he  waited,  as  he  expressed  it,  "  to  see  what  they  would 
do  next." 

It  was  his  usual  practice  to  read  out  aloud  to  me  every  Sunday 
evening  all  he  had  written  during  the  week.     When  the  novel 
was  completed  we  read  it  aloud  again  straight  through  from  the 
beginning  to  the  end,  so  that  he  might  judge  of  how  the  story      ^ 
came  as  a  whole,  omitting  or  adding  parts  as  he  considered      1 
necessary.      This   process  of   weeding   or   elaborating   was   not     I 
always  left  till  the  completion  of  the  story,  but  he  relied  on 
being  able  to  do  it  before  giving  his  work  to  the  public. 

As  the  story  was  always  read  to  me  while  in  progress  I  too 
got  to  believe  in  the  reality  of  the  characters,  and  found  myself 
thinking  of  them  as  real  live  people,  and  I  have  frequently  asked 
him  when  he  came  down  to  lunch,  or  had  finished  writing  for  the 
day,  such  a  question  as,  for  instance,  "  Well,  have  they  quarrelled 
yet  ?  "  and  he  would  reply,  as  the  case  might  be,  "  No,  I  don't 
know  if  they  will  come  to  a  quarrel ;  after  all,  I  must  wait  and 
see  what  they  do."  However,  towards  the  end  of  the  book  when 
an  intelligible  winding-up  of  the  story  became  imperative,  the 
plot  was  taken  up  and  carefully  considered,  all  the  straggling 
threads  gathered  together  and  finalities  decided  upon,  though 
latitude  was  always  allowed  for  details  to  shape  themselves  after 
their  own  fashion. 

Thus  it  happened  that  on  that  last  Friday  night  in  December, 
when  my  husband  laid  down  his  pen  in  the  middle  of  a  sentence 
never  to  be  completed,  he  had  told  me  as  much  as  he  knew  him- 
self of  what  the  ending  of  the  book  was  to  be.  I  am  therefore 
able  to  give  a  short  synopsis  of  his  ideas,  and  furthermore  to 

566 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE  567 

assure  the  reader  that  not  one  word  has  been  altered  in  the  manu- 
script. It  is  exactly  as  my  husband  left  it;  even  in  places  where 
I  knew  he  had  intended  to  make  some  slight  alteration,  I  have 
left  it  as  it  was  written. 

My  husband's  handwriting  was  wonderfully  clear  and  distinct, 
with  very  few  erasures.  He  considered  that  he  wrote  very  slowly, 
but  judging  by  the  amount  of  work  he  got  through,  this  cannot 
be  regarded  as  having  been  the  fact.  He  never  made  rough  copies 
and  practically  finished  as  he  went;  everything  was  so  complete 
that  he  found  even  a  slight  alteration  in  the  text  would  often 
let  him  in  for  as  much  work  as  the  writing  of  a  whole  chapter 
would  have  given  him. 

Latterly  he  found  that  he  did  his  best  writing  after  tea,  but 
he  never  could  be  persuaded  to  give  up  the  traditional  working 
hours  of  the  artist,  with  the  result  that  he  usually  spent  the 
whole  day  in  his  study,  not  allowing  himself  a  short  walk  before 
dinner. 

When  the  war  broke  out  his  instinct  for  mechanical  invention 
revived,  and  he  spent  much  thought  on  various  schemes  that  he 
submitted  from  time  to  time  to  the  board  of  inventions,  always 
hoping  to  hit  on  some  contrivance  that  would  be  of  real  service. 
In  this  way  valuable  time  was  stolen  from  literature.  Still,  he 
told  me  that  even  with  all  the  other  work  he  had  on  hand,  two 
more  months  would  see  the  novel  completed. .  But  alas  it  was 
not  to  be ! 

Evelyn  De  Morgan. 


PRb007 


DATE  DUE 

CAYLORD 

^MINTED  IN  U    S    A. 

ffllllllljIlllSUlf.  I  ?'V,ERSIDE  LIBRAR 


3  1210  01180  2483 


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